


Pursuit of happiness

by mysterious_intentions



Series: Skies for forever [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 5 am waking up after story but fine as standalone, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Humor, draco and hermione trying to be good to each other, more side characters to appear, soft dramione
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26129110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysterious_intentions/pseuds/mysterious_intentions
Summary: If he had to be begrudgingly honest, Draco Malfoy didn’t exactly know how to be someone’s boyfriend.It wasn’t the first time he was a boyfriend, or well, some sort of in-between version of one. He had somewhat dated Pansy Parkinson throughout fourth to sixth year, but even he could admit that he hadn’t particularly been agoodboyfriend.If she had to be begrudgingly honest, Hermione Granger didn’t exactly know how to be in an effective relationship with an enemy turned friend turned lover.It wasn’t the first time she was in a relationship, but quite frankly, this relationship with Draco Malfoy wasn’t like any other.{An after story to5 am, waking upbut can be read as a standalone}
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Series: Skies for forever [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1897366
Comments: 87
Kudos: 144





	1. Open communication

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This story can be read perfectly fine as a standalone, but I recommend that you read the previous story [5 am, waking up](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23501158/chapters/56355256) to understand the context of Draco’s development and there are little references here and there. :)
> 
> I wanted to delve deeper on the realistic issues that an established Dramione relationship could face and have these two lovely, but very strong-willed characters, fall in love with each other even more. Story arcs will be split over chapters, and there will be more fun side character appearances and interactions. Will continue until I run out of ideas, haha.
> 
> Please enjoy and let me know your thoughts!

* * *

If he had to be begrudgingly honest, Draco Malfoy didn’t exactly know how to be someone’s boyfriend.

It wasn’t the first time he was a boyfriend, or well, some sort of in-between version of one. He had somewhat dated Pansy Parkinson throughout fourth to sixth year, but even he could admit that he hadn’t exactly been a _good_ boyfriend. 

His previous sort-of-relationship with Pansy hadn’t been bad, but it certainly wasn’t particularly memorable either.

As terrible as it may sound, he had felt nothing when the relationship ended.

Nothing when the relationship started.

And likely nothing more than vague appreciation throughout the relationship as well.

Pansy had idolized him like a spoiled prince, praised him if he so much as breathed, and poured him with so much attention that he really should have felt something other than nothing for her.

Draco looked up from the long stretch of parchment in his hand— a transfiguration essay, with script so neat and tiny that the paper wasn’t even halfway proofread— and glanced at the bushy-haired girl across from him.

The bushy-haired girl across from him was none other than Hermione Granger— resident Golden Girl, brightest witch of her age, and most amazingly, somehow his girlfriend.

Over the last hour, Hermione hadn’t budged from the wooden chair of their favorite red-oak table nor looked up from her own long stretch of parchment in her hand— which was by the way, his transfiguration essay.

Firstly, it would likely be a cold day in hell before Hermione idolized him like a prince. Hell, a relatively short time ago she had barely tolerated him.

Secondly, _he_ would wonder if she had gone barmy that day if she praised him for merely breathing, although it wasn’t like she _never_ praised him. As standoffish and snootily swotty as Hermione could come off as, she could be surprisingly sweet with her words. 

Lastly, Draco wasn’t exactly sure how to quantify the amount of attention Hermione poured into him, but he would bet a pretty galleon that she may have poured just as much, if not more, into editing his transfiguration essay. Her pink tongue peeked out slightly, the only sound between them the scritch-scratch of her quill as she scribbled copious notes in the margins of his essay. 

In the two weeks since the official start of their romantic relationship, their time together had gone more or less like this.

Well, there was a bit more than _just_ the library.

A greeting wave across the Great Hall every breakfast before they settled in their respective house tables.

Classes.

Another greeting wave across the Great Hall every lunch before they turned in opposite directions.

Library.

A few owls exchanged between them as they prepared for bed in their respective dormitories.

Sure, Draco’s marks (that were mind you, already fairly good even without Hermione) had shot up even further, and he did appreciate that the library offered them as much privacy as the former Death Eater and resident Golden Girl could get in this gossip-ridden school.

This _was_ Hermione Granger, and she loved the library and all things literature, and she hadn’t complained about anything so far. But…were relationships supposed to contain so much homework and consist of so much library? 

With Pansy, spending time together had been easy, she just…seemed to appear everywhere he went like a shadow that never rested. However, with Draco and Hermione being in different houses, they had to make conscious efforts to find each other and do whatever people in normal relationships were supposed to do.

Suddenly, Hermione paused in her work and looked up, tilting her head at him with a question in her eyes.

“You’ve been staring at me for a bit, is something wrong?” she inquired.

Draco blinked, dragging himself out of his thoughts like pulling his legs out of sand. Embarrassed to be caught red-handed, he immediately glanced downwards and coughed into his fist.

“…Is there something I missed within my 3-meter long essay?” Hermione ventured.

He knew that she had meant for the question to be light, even teasing, but he also knew that there an edge of real concern on the quality of her essay. For someone who was eons above the average human in brilliance, Hermione constantly burdened herself with illogically anxious perfectionism. 

“It’s fine, as usual. More than fine. Although may I suggest that on page 2, paragraph 5, subsection D, you quote _Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration_ as an additional literary reference to strengthen your hypothesis,” Draco recommended. (What? Was it so surprising that prior to his wandering stream of his consciousness, he actually _had_ been reading her homework?)

Hermione opened her mouth as if to fire off a defense, but then promptly shut it and straightened up.

Clearing her throat, she admitted with just a tad bit of difficulty, “…You’re right, point taken.”

A smirk played at his lips; he couldn’t help it. With all the academically lackluster study partners Hermione’s had to deal with over the years, she likely wasn’t used to having anyone try to critique her.

“Hmm? What was that? I don’t believe I heard you correctly, could you repeat yourself?” Draco teased, leaning forward.

Hermione scoffed and swatted him away.

“My my, such a temper. Who knew that the brightest witch of her age struggled so much with accepting a little constructive criticism?”

“I can handle criticism!” Hermione protested. 

“‘Handle’ and ‘accept’ aren’t exactly synonyms,” Draco informed loftily.

Her nose wrinkled, but before she could launch into a debate on semantics, she paused, her gaze shifting to something behind him. Her face pulled into a puzzled expression and she pointed at the window.

“Is that an owl outside? And does it seem to be…waiting for you?” she conjectured.

_Tap. Tap._

_Scritch._

Oh, Draco could recognize that scraping pattern even in his sleep. He turned around, and his suspicions were confirmed as he saw that it was indeed a large owl perched at the window, its ebony black coat blending into the darkness of the autumn night. The only clearly visible part of its body were its eyes, which glowed an eerie yellow as they stared unblinkingly at him. 

It was no doubt, Altair, the Malfoy family owl, and he was no doubt carrying a letter from his mother.

Sighing, Draco stood up from his chair and pushed open the window’s glass pane. Altair extended his leg and proffered the neatly rolled letter, which Draco then proceeded to unravel.

_Dear Draco,_

_It has come to my attention that there may be some truth to the rumors that have been in the papers. I would like to formally meet Miss Granger at once. Please invite her to the Manor tomorrow evening._

_Yours,_

_NM_

Oh no.

If Draco knew his mother well enough, and he did, what lay underneath the seemingly cordial invitation was likely an interrogation.

It was too soon, it had only been a scant 2 weeks, and much too early for Hermione to get wrapped up in his mother’s expectations.

Picking up the RVSP letter that had been attached to his mother’s letter, Draco pulled out his quill and replied.

_Mother,_

_I’m afraid that I must respectively decline your invitation. It is simply too early for such discussions._

_Yours,_

_DM_

After initialing his signature with a quick flourish of his hand, Draco rolled up the parchment and reattached it under Altair’s talons. The owl blinked at him once, then stared at him expectantly.

“I don’t keep any treats on me, and they’re not allowed in the library either way. You have to deliver the letters to the owlery,” Draco explained, as if his owl could understand him.

Perhaps his owl could, because he shook his feathers in what could only be described as indignantly, then took off into the night sky without another hoot.

Upon returning to their oak table and slipping into his matching wooden chair, Draco was met with yet another expectant stare.

Draco said nothing, and as the silence stretched between them and it was clear that Draco wasn’t going to enlighten her, Hermione caved into her curiosity and asked, “Well? What was that about?”

He shrugged and replied, “I received a letter.”

Hermione pouted, and he could practically see the conscious effort to refrain from rolling her eyes. “I gathered as much, but typically owls don’t come to the library unless it’s urgent. You looked upset as you read it, and also replied rather rashly.”

“It wasn’t really urgent, and I’ve dealt with it,” Draco stated.

Hermione drummed her fingers against the table, pout still in place. “Who was the letter from?”

“My mother,” he answered.

“Oh.”

The conversation stalled after that, and Draco returned to his task of proofreading her behemoth of an essay.

A few minutes later however, Hermione released a frustrated huff. Draco ignored the first one, but the second time she sighed, he peered at her from under his eyelashes. She hadn’t moved a centimeter down his essay, a clear indicator that something really must have been amiss.

“What is it?” Draco probed.

“Nothing,” Hermione clipped.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I know that you’re upset. You’re about as subtle as a runaway chimera in the Great Hall.”

Hermione glared at him, twirling her quill dexterously between her fingers. She inhaled deeply through her nose and exhaled through her mouth.

“Oh alright,” she conceded, “it’s just, how come you never tell me anything? Why does everything have to be such a secret with you?”

Wrinkling his nose, Draco replied, “Just because there’s been a shift in the nature of our relationship doesn’t mean I’m going to expose all my secrets to you. Nor do I expect the same from you.”

“No of course not,” Hermione agreed, “but we’re dating now. If we want this to work, we’re supposed to engage in open communication.”

“We exchange words every day, is that not communication?”

“I’m not referring to literally the act of communicating, I meant having discussions about the important aspects of our lives…” Hermione pursed her lips, then trailed off a bit lamely, “…Like sharing our feelings.” 

“Sharing our feelings,” Draco repeated flatly.

“It’s not as silly as it sounds!” Hermione protested, then softened her voice and stared at him with large, beseeching eyes, “Don’t you trust me?”

Draco sighed. Damn it. Considering how Hermione always got him to cave to what she wanted, she would have had a pretty good run in the Slytherin house.

“I do,” he admitted.

She beamed brightly in response, and reached out to rub the back of his hand with warm fingers. Draco watched as she trailed her fingers between the grooves of his knuckles, then flicked his gaze back up to where the smile lingered on her lips.

Damn it. Fine.

“My mother wanted to meet you. She invited us to come over to the Manor tomorrow evening.” 

He felt her freeze, and when she spoke, there was an irritated edge to her tone, “Am I right to deduce that you replied back declining her invitation?”

“Well, yes of course.”

Pulling her hand back to her side, Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “Why didn’t you discuss it with me beforehand? The letter was concerning _me_ and the decision should have been a joint one.”

“It’s too soon to meet my mother, she would overwhelm you with all the expectations that come with being in a romantic relationship with the sole Malfoy heir,” Draco defended his decision.

“I’m Hermione Granger, I know all about being overwhelmed!” Hermione retorted.

“I declined for your own good. We’ve barely been dating and we don’t need my mother to complicate things,” he insisted. 

“Well, it would have been nice if you involved me in a decision for ‘my own good,’” she countered, curling her index and middle finger into air quotes. She folded her hands in front of her and picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Are you embarrassed to bring me to meet your mother?”

“What? No.” 

“Then why all the hesitancy? We’re going to have to address the looming troll in the room that I’m not a pureblood someday.”

“Yes someday, but not tomorrow.”

Hermione sucked air through her teeth, but didn’t comment further.

Placing Hermione’s essay to the side and leaning forward on his elbows, Draco continued, “I don’t see why you’re so upset. Do you really want to be badgered by my mother about your non-existent ability to manage multiple estates and host soirées while we’re still trying to establish a functional relationship?”

“Honestly…no, not really. Even though I’ve faced dark wizards and rode on the back of dragons, it’s more nerve-wracking to just _think_ about meeting your mother,” Hermione confessed. A blush fanned across her face, highlighting the structure of her high cheekbones.

“But…she’s your mother, and clearly very important to you. I want her to like me and support us. That’s what relationships are, aren’t they? We do things that we don’t necessarily want to do because we care about the other person.”

Draco closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. If he had to be begrudgingly honest, Draco Malfoy didn’t exactly know how to be someone’s boyfriend. Much less a _good_ boyfriend.

But he felt something far more than nothing for this bushy-haired girl across from him, and maybe it was time to try.

“This open communication,” he began.

He opened his eyes and met Hermione’s eyes head on, the deep brown of her irises fiery and intense and so, so intelligent, as if she really did know all the right answers and right things to do.

“I’ll make more of an effort to try it.”

x-x-x-x-x-x

x-x-x

* * *

As Draco removed his reading glasses and tucked his first edition copy of _Advanced Rune Translation_ into his night stand drawer, a light knock rapped on their door.

Who could it be at this hour? It was unusual in itself for their dormitory to have visitors. Although in the past, Theo and Blaise had nagged him about his newfound withdrawn lifestyle, neither of them were much better with their social lives.

Draco could hear Theo, who’s sleeping arrangements were situated closest to the door, clamber out of bed and grumble obscenities under his breath.

Theo thrust open the door, but instead of unleashing a string of curses onto their uninvited guest, he let out a shrill yelp and stumbled backwards.

“Granger, why are you here and _how_ did you get in here? You’re not a Slytherin! And this is the boy’s dormitory!”

Hermione?

Draco bolted upright and rummaged for his wand— why was she here? Hermione wasn’t one to break the rules unless it was for an urgent matter.

Hermione clicked her tongue, and Draco could practically see her proudly puffing out her chest as she enlightened them, “Mind you, I’ve snuck into the Ministry of Magic before. You think I wouldn’t know how to get into the Slytherin boy’s dormitory?”

Under her breath, he thought he heard her ramble something along the lines of “surprisingly clean in here,” and “these dungeons aren’t as depressing as I imagined.”

“Bloody hell Granger, I’m not wearing any trousers,” Theo complained, shuffling out of view as he sifted through a pile of clothing for a pair of pants.

From his peripheral vision, Draco saw Blaise poke his head out from behind his curtain and squint at their rather loud guest. After noting that it was merely Hermione, he plopped his head back onto his pillow and turned away from the commotion.

“I’m not looking,” Hermione insisted as she angled her body to give Theo some privacy, “besides, I spent all my school years with Harry and Ron and we even spent months living together in a tent. It’s not like you’re starkers, so it’s fine.”

Draco stilled, his grip on his wand tightening. Just how many trouser-less men has Hermione seen for it to have become so commonplace that it was “fine”?

“Anyways, Draco is here right? I need to speak with him,” Hermione continued, all business.

Worry lanced through him like an icicle, and like an ominous storm cloud, Draco burst out from behind his four-poster bed. His eyes were focused and serious as he scanned her for injuries. “What’s wrong Hermione? Are you hurt?” 

Hermione jolted slightly, her gaze immediately darting to the wand in his hands. She waved her hand back and forth, a guilty expression crossing her features as she read the open concern on his face. 

“No, it’s nothing like that. You can put the wand away, Draco,” she reassured.

Draco frowned, but nonetheless slipped his wand into the pocket of his silk pajamas. “Then what is it? Surely it must be important if you couldn’t have waited until morning.”

Hermione wet her lips, and Draco honed in on the action probably longer than appropriate. Her lips were slightly chapped with dry skin, but were a pretty shade of natural pink and she had a nice cupid’s bow.

Taking in a breath before releasing the tension in her shoulders, Hermione held her hand up. Resting in her open palm was a very familiar piece of ivory, heavy-weight stationary. One look at the signature silver borders and the fancy flourish of the writer’s initials, and Draco knew what this was all about.

“Your mother wrote to me directly,” Hermione stated, in case he needed the additional affirmation. 

Draco groaned, running a hand down his face. Bollocks, he should have seen this coming.

“And I would like to accept her invitation.”

“What?” Draco exclaimed, he lowered his head and stared down at her. “We literally just discussed this a few hours ago and put this issue to bed— barely been dating, mother will complicate things, you don’t want to be badgered with questions about estates and soirées.” 

“No, _you_ discussed those things. _We_ discussed the need to engage in more open communication. Hence, why I’m here. To openly communicate with you that I intend to accept your mother’s invitation before actually doing it.”

“Do Zabini and I have to be part of your open communication too?” Theo called, whipping his head out from behind the curtain of his four-poster bed to glare at them. “It’s past midnight and not everyone suffers from chronic insomnia like the two of you do.” 

Hermione swatted a hand in Theo’s direction and asserted, “We’ll be finished in a few minutes, I’ll be out of here before you know it.”

Theo griped petulantly, but then seemed to disappear behind the curtain. 

She turned back to Draco, and upon seeing that his glare remained steely and scowl remained intact, softened her voice just a bit and explained, “Before you say anything, I did mull over this a lot already. Look at it from my point of view. How can I deny your mother’s invitation? She’s your mother, Draco. And it’s just a _tea._ I like tea, you like tea, and your mother likes tea. The both of us have certainly been through worse situations than a tea party.”

But Draco knew better. Just what kind of rhetoric had his mother written to persuade Hermione to accept an evening tea? It couldn’t have been so easy…unless…

“What did my mother say in there that made you want to defend yourself?” Draco deduced, cutting to the chase.

Hermione’s breath hitched, the moment not going unnoticed by Draco, and she pulled the letter behind her back not-so-discreetly. He narrowed his eyes, but before Draco could have the chance to snatch it, she used a wandless spell and sent the paper flying across the room. 

“What makes you think she said anything like that?” Hermione evaded, and Merlin was she awful at lying.

“Because she’s my mother,” Draco answered evenly, “and she’s aware that you Gryffindors are notoriously predictable with rising to the smallest amount of bait. Pointless heroics and what not.”

Huffing, she crossed her arms across her chest and pouted. It would have been sort of endearing if he wasn’t so irritated.

“She implied that I was only dating you for your wealth! Which is absolutely _ridiculous_. As if I would do something so shallow,” Hermione groused.

“My mother likely can’t fathom an alternative explanation. Why else would the Golden Girl want to fraternize with the Malfoy family?” Draco mused.

“Which is why we should accept this opportunity to begin again on better terms and clear up these horrid misconceptions.”

Sighing, Draco took a step back and pinched the tense skin on the back of his neck. “I know that you always want to solve all your bloody problems as soon as you can like the busybody you are, but it is very likely that my mother only wants to meet you to point out the flaws in our relationship before we can even discover them ourselves. Do you really think you’re prepared to start answering serious questions from my mother?”

A chill settled like morning frost over the room, and she regarded him with ice in her eyes. “Oh, are you admitting that you’re not serious about pursuing this relationship?”

He blew out a frustrated groan. “That is _not_ what I said.”

Before Hermione could open her mouth and quip back a retort, the door swung open. Both Draco and Hermione paused, and turned just as Theo strolled into the room like he had simply returned from a peaceful evening walk.

Suspicion flooded through Draco like a deluge of cold rain.

“Where did you return from?” Draco questioned, trying to keep his voice level but admittedly not doing a very good job. 

“Nowhere really,” Theo replied lightly.

Struck by a thought, Hermione crossed to the other side of the room and searched the floors.

“…Where did the letter run off to?” She looked up then, and after scrutinizing Theo’s neutral stare, gaped at him in disbelief. “Theo! You did _not_.”

The wiry-framed Slytherin shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.”

“Nott you bloody wanker, that was not your decision to make,” Draco snapped.

His roommate rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. “Please, Malfoy. Do you really think your mother would simply lay down and give up? She’s the type of woman who’d find a way to make the giant squid deliver a letter if she couldn’t get your owl in here. Besides, we all know that you were going to cave into Granger’s wishes anyways. I just sped up the process and saved you lot from rowing all night, it’s nearly impossible to win an argument against Granger.” 

“That’s not true!” They objected in tandem to different things. Both of them paused, exchanging glances for a moment before firing their glowers back on Theo.

With a lazy wave of dismissal, Theo pulled back his curtain and settled into his four-poster bed, but not without getting a final word in, “Malfoy, can’t you ever properly explain yourself without acting like an emotionally-constipated wanker? And Granger, can’t you ever let someone else win for a change? I swear, the both of you can be so insufferable.”

Hermione bristled, her hands fisting by her sides and a wand twitch away from throttling Theo. But before she could utter a single word, Draco spoke first.

“Get out.”

It was only two words, but the fierce anger rippled barely under the surface of his voice. Bloody hell. What were they going to do now?

Hermione blinked at Draco’s abrupt change in demeanor, and the anger seeped out of her like water swirling in a drain as she turned towards Draco apprehensively. There was an edge of hesitancy in her eyes, maybe even a flicker of fear, and Draco wondered if she was regretting her decision to like someone like him. A stream of remorse trickled through him, and he tried to reel back the darkness before it could lash out any further.

Draco was far from perfect, he wasn’t even objectively good, but he would do anything for her to stop looking at him like she had reasons to worry.

Because she didn’t.

No. He would never harm her. Would never even think about hurting her.

_Open communication_ , the phrase wriggled itself in an ignored corner of his mind. Use words. Share feelings. At least _try_.

“…Please,” Draco added, although it was admittedly more of a grumble. “It’s late. We’re not in the right frame of mind to continue this discussion. Or at least I’m not.”

Hermione frowned, but nodded and thankfully let it go. “…I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to fight. This is your family, and she _is_ your mother. I wanted this to be a joint decision.”

Sighing, Draco felt the fight diffuse from him as exhaustion soaked into his bones. He could never find the willpower to hold onto his rage in the face of her aggravatingly pure intentions.

“It’s alright. I know,” he told her, gently tracing over her jawline with his fingers before pressing a kiss to her forehead. A pretty blush blossomed across her cheeks, resulting in Draco’s lip curving into the tiniest of smirks.

He turned back towards his bed and rummaged for his cloak, which he then proceeded to throw over his pajamas and fastened the first button. 

“Come on, I’ll walk you back to the Gryffindor towers. It isn’t very safe to wander the Slytherin dungeons by yourself at night,” Draco said.

In a rare instance of speechlessness, Hermione merely nodded and followed him as he slipped out the door.

The walk back to the Gryffindor towers was silent, which was fine considering they had to refrain from drawing any unnecessary attention and getting Filch on their backs anyways.

As they neared the towers, Draco halted at the base of the stairs and motioned for her to go up. Before Hermione ascended up the stairs she turned back and paused—a series of choices flickering behind her eyes before she settled on one, and leaned in to peck him on the cheek.

“Thank you for walking me back here, good night Draco,” she bade farewell softly.

“Good night Hermione,” he returned, grateful that his blush could be concealed in the thick stretch of darkness.

Once Draco returned to his dormitory, he shucked off his cloak and quietly glided into bed. Ironically, even though he had told Hermione that he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to continue the discussion, it was all his mind would let him think about now. As much as he loved his mother, his mother would no doubt be assessing Hermione’s long-term marital potential and manipulatively asking other invasive questions.

It was already a miracle enough that Hermione was dating him, but how would she feel about being bound to him and his family for the rest of her life?

Draco didn’t know, and he didn’t get any closer to his answer as he stared at the velvet-black canopy of his four-poster bed for the rest of the night. 

* * *


	2. Admittedly apprehensive

* * *

If she had to be begrudgingly honest, Hermione Granger was a little nervous about meeting Narcissa Malfoy.

It seemed strange, silly even.

For someone who’s past achievements consisted of staring down Dark Wizards and destroying evil-imbued cursed objects, meeting her boyfriend’s mother shouldn’t have filled her with more slowly-ticking dread than all of those combined. With Viktor and Cormac, they had never progressed far enough to ever bring family into the picture, and with Ron, the Weasleys were already her family before their relationship took on a romantic nature.

In stark contrast to Molly Weasley’s warm welcoming embraces and humble lifestyle, Narcissa Malfoy was the closest thing to a modern-day queen—gliding through life with effortless grace, but holding everyone at an arm’s-length distance. Narcissa was hardly someone who wore her emotions on her sleeves, and for Merlin’s sake, Hermione had barely scratched the surface of her son.

Maybe it wasn’t so strange or silly to be a little nervous. 

Perhaps the greatest irony of all was that Hermione had brought this upon herself, even going to the lengths of breaking school rules to intrude into the Slytherin boy’s dormitory.

She did try to hold off replying until the morning. Really.

But with the Malfoy owl waiting at the window of the Gryffindor towers with unnerving yellow eyes, and the polite yet patronizing cursive writing of, “ _Miss Granger,_ _for your awareness_ , _my son currently has no access to his inheritance vaults and will not for quite some time,”_ sliding like a snake in the stream of her thoughts, Hermione knew that trying to sleep last night was a lost cause.

She knew she was getting baited, but she couldn’t possibly have Mrs. Malfoy believe that she was only using her son for his wealth. It wasn’t right nor true! And things that weren’t right nor true should be remedied, shouldn’t they?

This evening was going to be fine. Or, at least that’s what she kept repeating to herself.

“Do you realize that you’ve been on the same paragraph for the last 10 minutes and haven’t scribbled a single revision? My, my, I didn’t realize that my essays had become so brilliant,” Draco drawled, a tiny smirk on his lips. 

Hermione startled out of her thoughts and jerked her head up to meet Draco’s neutral grey eyes, glinting with a hint of curiosity. He honestly didn’t look much better than she felt— puffy bags ringed his eyes, a grumpy crease furrowed his brow, and although Draco had grown out of neatly slicking his hair back, his blond hair was unusually unkempt.

Ignoring the subtle jab, she muttered, “I hope you take a Pepper-up potion before we meet your mother in a few hours…I don’t want her to think that dating me has been detrimental for your health.”

The smirk on his face disappeared and was immediately replaced by a scowl. “I can offer you the same advice. What’s the matter? Isn’t this what you wanted? May I remind you that _you_ were the one who wanted this in the first place. So badly, in fact, that you broke school rules in the dead of night for it?” Draco grumbled, not meeting her eye as he glared at the quill in his hand. 

There was a bite in his tone that she couldn’t help but wince at. 

“I know, I know,” Hermione admitted, she lay down Draco’s essay flat on the table and then wrung her hands together.

She wasn’t even completely sure that they were fighting. Last night, they had parted ways on fairly amicable terms, and this afternoon, Draco had arrived at the library without mentioning a peep about their upcoming evening activities. 

But Draco had explicitly asked her not to accept his mother’s invitation, she had essentially ignored him and pushed her way through, and she supposed that if had to count all the wrongdoings, she had woken up all of his cranky roommates. Oh…maybe she hadn’t been the best girlfriend.

“Are you mad at me?” she asked quietly, reaching her hand out towards him.

Draco watched as her hand tentatively neared his, and allowed her to stroke the back of his hand and fiddle with his Malfoy ring.

“What’s done is done. Theo already sent the letter out,” Draco answered curtly.

“Yes, but that didn’t answer the question,” Hermione pressed.

He sighed, the kind of long, sort of whooshing sigh that deflated all the air from his chest.

“…No. I’m not angry. That’s not the right word.”

A wry smile lifted up on one corner of her lips. Sometimes, Draco could be so closed off with his emotions, and other times, Hermione knew exactly what he was thinking.

“I’m scared too,” Hermione confessed. She felt Draco’s hand stiffen, and when she looked at his face, his expression had pinched sourly like he had smelled a foul potion.

“Oh alright, _apprehensive_ then,” she amended. Draco neither refuted or agreed with her, so she moved forward with the question they had been avoiding, “Is it going to bother your mother that I’m not a pureblood?”

Draco’s lips pressed into a thin line, and Hermione caught the flash of hesitation in his eyes as he averted his gaze.

“Go on, just tell me. I’ll figure it out soon enough anyways,” Hermione stated, trying to sound brave, trying to convince him that his answer wouldn’t trouble her.

He sighed for what seemed like the umpteenth time, and laced their fingers together and gave her hand a firm squeeze.

“It doesn’t matter what my mother thinks. I don’t care what your blood is,” Draco asserted.

She couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips and beamed at Draco with pride. He had come so far since the insufferable 11-year old prat who hurled hateful slurs and tattled to his father for every minor inconvenience.

But he hadn’t answered the question.

Instead, he re-directed his attention to her essay like it was the most fascinating thing he ever had the privilege of reading.

Once his attention was off of her, Hermione allowed her smile to fade. A cloud of doubt hovered at the edge of Hermione’s mind, but she let it linger instead of rushing to dispel it, and didn’t press Draco again.

This evening was going to be fine. Right? Nothing to stress about.

x-x-x-x-x-x

x-x-x

* * *

There was so much to stress about.

Why did both magical and muggle society have to care so much about styling hair?

And why did she have to have so much of said hair?

Hermione struggled to reign in a scream as her brush caught in one of her knots, stubbornly refusing to comb out her tangled ends. She made a muffled noise of frustration, then patted at her vanity table for her rapidly-depleting tub of hair potion. Unscrewing the cap yet again, Hermione scooped another generous dollop of Sleakeazy’s and hoped that this time, it would be enough to tame her wild mane of hair.

After another few minutes of battling with her hair brush and liberally applying hairspray until she was hacking on the fumes, Hermione’s hair could be objectively described as sleek and shiny.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she gave herself a moment to relish in the accomplishment of having hair that was silky soft to the touch. 

But unfortunately, this relief was short-lived as she moved onto her next source of stress in the form of her clothing strewn out on her bed.

Hogwart’s school uniform, muggle clothing, muggle-athletic wear… she had always been one to opt for comfort over fashion, and honestly it had never seemed like a problem until this very moment.

She did have her periwinkle set of dress robes from the Yule ball…but that was from nearly 4 years ago now, and she had…well, grown more developed since then. Besides, wasn’t that dress better suited for a dance? This was a meeting over tea on a Friday evening, not a fancy gala. 

So, by process of elimination, Hermione reluctantly reached for her school uniform…

Oh, she could already feel the weight of Draco’s silently judgmental stare at her choice of evening attire.

Maybe she could persuade Draco to wear his uniform too so it could appear like they had rushed over after classes, although she would bet her wand that he was immaculately dressed in another tailored black suit.

She glanced at her watch, and her eyes bugged as she read the time. Oh no, styling her hair had gobbled up a colossal amount of time, how did other girls manage to do this every morning? She threw on her school uniform and rushed down the stairs, hoping that Draco hadn’t been waiting for too long…

x-x-x

“All that time preparing, and the school uniform was your best bet? Hermione, please tell me you can’t be serious,” Draco droned, eyeing the knee-length skirt and baggy sweater distastefully.

Hermione gestured towards his standard outfit, which was lo and behold, another tailored black suit. Considering all the times that Draco had liked to insist that she was predictable, he certainly wasn’t full of surprises himself.

“You wear this every day! And I wear this every day, so we’re essentially doing the same thing. Did you honestly expect that I had a matching set of suit robes?” she retorted.

Draco pinched bridge of his nose and exhaled shortly. “For your information, the thread count on this suit is far superior compared with my normal ones. I know you own dress robes. You’ve wore them before to the Yule ball and Slughorn’s party.”

Hermione shrugged and explained, “Yes, but those don’t exactly…fit that well anymore. It’s been some years.”

His eyes darted from her face to her body, lingering just a beat too long on the shape of her chest before he returned to her with an impassive stare.

“That’s surprising. It doesn’t look like much has changed since—”

Hermione’s eyes sharpened to slits and she leaned forward menacingly. “I advise that you think carefully about your next words. Honestly…men.”

“I was _going_ to comment that it looks like you barely gained a kilo of weight since our fourth year. Did you think I was referring to a specific portion of your upper body? My my, you do enjoy jumping to the most salacious conclusions.” 

The little git. He was making fun of her. Hermione petulantly smacked him on the arm, the blush on her cheeks probably lessening the force of her glare.

“Can we just get going?” she snapped. 

“Wait wait,” Draco put a hand up in a stopping motion, then slowly reached for her straightened hair and played with a lock that had fallen over her shoulder.

“Atrocious outfit aside, you look lovely. I appreciate the effort you put into meeting my mother,” he told her, his voice soft as black velvet, and pushed her hair behind her ears. The shell of her ear tingled where Draco’s fingers just barely brushed it, his touch was always so feather-light and measured, as if she was something precious that he couldn’t bear to break. 

Hermione’s face heated up and she shifted uncomfortably in her spot.

“…I guess you do too,” she muttered awkwardly. And it was true, he did always look good. Even if she barely told him out loud, it was undeniable that Draco was one of the best-dressed and physically fit men at Hogwarts. (What? Flirting had never been a forte of hers, and it certainly didn’t have to fall in the category of their open communication, right?)

Draco chuckled, apparently amused by her answer. “But even you can admit that Hogwarts’ school uniforms aren’t exactly the most impressive form of dress, correct? Fortunately for you, McGonagall has lightened the travel restrictions for 8th years. Let’s take a brief detour to Diagon Alley before we visit my mother, shall we?”

x-x-x-x-x-x

x-x-x

* * *

Admittedly, the dress was lovely. It was a beautiful chiffon dress that boasted a modest, yet flattering, v-neck line and had a long slit that reached up to the middle of her thigh. The material was so incredibly silky and comfortable, like liquid silver running through her fingers—perhaps there really was something to this whole thread count thing. Surprisingly, although he had heavily contemplated an emerald green color, Draco ultimately selected a deep blue color that glistened like ocean waters under moonlight. 

Honestly, Draco’s fashion sense was quite tasteful, and this was probably the nicest article of clothing she owned.

However…

Hermione winced as her heel snagged on the hem of her dress and she stumbled forward. She paused to inspect the damage and her heart plummeted as she rubbed at the small tear that she had newly created. 

Couldn’t these lovely dresses be more practical to wear? And don’t even get her started on these heels.

“Hermione, I know that you’re not fond of me purchasing items for you, but we still have a significant stretch of walking to do before we reach the front door,” Draco unhelpfully informed her, “May I suggest that you attempt to keep your new, and rather expensive, dress intact for a few hours?” 

“I’m trying!” Hermione huffed, blowing a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. “It’s these heels…they keep catching on the train of the dress.”

“Hm…perhaps you’d have better luck if you refrained from stomping like a troll with every step.”

“I do not!” she pouted, “don’t tease me, I’m nervous enough as is.”

“Hm…” he intoned again, and cringed as he watched Hermione wobble on the cobblestone walkway, the long stem of her heels precariously close to stabbing the hem of her dress.

“I suppose it can’t be helped,” Draco surmised.

“What can’t be helped?” Hermione asked absently, all her focus diverted to her walking patterns. But, it turned out she didn’t need to wait long as she was scooped into Draco’s arms bridal style and cradled against his chest.

“Ah!” Hermione shrieked, and batted at the arm that was wrapped securely around her waist. “Put me down Draco! I can walk on my own.”

“Walking perhaps, but walking and keeping that dress in one piece? Up to debate.”

Her cheeks flushed, but even Hermione could begrudgingly admit that Draco may have had a point. Plus, this was sort of…nice. Draco had spritzed on some sort of piney cologne, and his palms were pools of warmth as he held her under her knees and around her waist. After failing to drudge up a compelling reason to be put down, she gave in, and stopped flailing long enough to wrap her arms around his neck.

“Should I at least cast a feather-light charm? There is indeed still a significant stretch of walkway left.” Hermione offered awkwardly, a bit self-conscious of the inconvenience of her weight.

Draco shook his head and said, “It’s fine, you’re incredibly light as is.”

He shifted her in his arms, and although subtle, Hermione felt the protective curl of his fingers as he angled her closer to his chest.

The remainder of the walk continued without incident, and once they reached the majestic archway entrance to Malfoy Manor, he carefully deposited her feet on the ground and helped her stand upright. His hand lingered by her waist, and when Hermione looked up at Draco curiously, there was a softness to his eyes that seemed to want to tell her something he didn’t know how to say.

It was overwhelming to be the center of his attention, so she broke eye contact, and fidgeted with the straps of her dress so they fit more snugly on her shoulders.

“Thank you, Draco,” she said faintly.

Draco nodded silently, and she watched his Adam’s apple bob as he gulped down his words. In the next instant he had returned to his usual self, and raised his hand to allow the doors to sense his magical signature.

As the austere gothic-style doors slowly swung open, Draco regarded Hermione with a wary look.

“Are you sure this is what you want? We can still turn back, it’s not too late.”

Hermione straightened her posture and lifted her chin. “I’ll be fine, Draco. Stop being such a worrywart. It’s my choice to be here,” she reassured.

Instead of snarking back with a sarcastic comment or lifting a skeptical eyebrow, Draco frowned, flexing his fingers ever so slightly as he returned his hand to his side. It was the closest that she’d ever seen Draco, who tended to shield all his emotions until they exploded out in frustration, look vaguely nervous.

“Hermione…I’m sure you remember that Malfoy Manor can be rather…unpleasant. I’m…admittedly apprehensive about this,” Draco confessed, then grimaced at the dimly lit foyer of his home.

Forcibly clamping down the wave of unease in her stomach, Hermione cleared her throat and wrapped her hand around Draco’s. She gave his hand a firm squeeze, and waited for his eyes to trail back to her before flashing him what she hoped passed as a confident smile.

“I am too, but if I stopped myself from doing things because I was apprehensive, then I’d never accomplish anything. It’ll be okay Draco, we’ve been through worse, haven’t we?” she reminded him, adding in a wink for good measure.

Draco’s face warmed—Hermione did love how his pale skin so easily reddened—and he coughed into his free hand while leaving the other hand within her grasp.

“That pure optimism is misguided, and oh-so-very Gryffindor,” he grumbled.

Hermione cracked a small smile. “Well you _are_ dating one. Did you expect any less? Besides, I know that there are certain…areas in the Manor that we should avoid, but how unpleasant can the entire Manor be?”

x-x-x-x-x-x

x-x-x

* * *

It turned out, unfortunately, that the entire Manor could be very unpleasant.

Or at least, this endlessly long hallway filled with enchanted portraits was.

_Mudblood._

_Absolutely filthy._

_How dare someone like her walk the halls of the Manor?_

_Blood traitor._

_What a disgrace._

_The most disappointing Malfoy in existence._

The people in the portraits all looked at her the same way— squinty-eyed and condescending as they lifted their chins and stared down their noses with open disgust.

Frustration and anger crawled on her skin like an army of fire ants, and she would have had trouble ignoring the jeers and keeping her mouth shut if she had been alone.

But fortunately, or maybe in some ways unfortunately, she wasn’t alone— and her companion had more than enough rage for the both of them.

At first, Draco had hurled colorful insults right back at the hateful portraits and threatened to burn them to crumbling ashes right then and there.

But Hermione had pulled at his arm, reminding him that they really did have a ways to go until they reached the tea room, and that he really shouldn’t commit arson in his own house. Draco remained tense as a coiled snake, and he couldn’t bring himself to agree with her, but had allowed her to drag him away from the portrait he had been seconds away from casting an _Incendio_ on. 

He had to settle for wandlessly shuttering every portrait they walked by with thick and very dusty curtains. Each curtain slammed shut with the rippling force of Draco’s emotions, but even so, the shrill and indignant screeching of his ancestors could be heard muffled behind the dense fabric.

Once they reached the end of the hallway, Draco abruptly spun on his heel and fixed her with a solemn stare, his eyes like cold steel.

“I’m sorry,” Draco stated heavily, “you didn’t deserve to go through that.” His chest rose up and down as he struggled to control his breathing, and his fists were clenched so tightly that they trembled by his sides. He glanced around the corner and scowled as he noted another row of enchanted portraits. “Bloody hell, since when did we have so many of these? I’m afraid that there’s more unpleasantness to go.”

It was true, she couldn’t deny that this was indeed a very unpleasant experience. But in some sort of strange twisted way, the fact that this experience was just as unpleasant, or perhaps even _more_ so for Draco, made her feel a little better.

After all, did it really matter what cranky, and very dead, pureblood spirits thought about her and her blood status? The opinion of her cranky, and very alive, pureblood boyfriend was far more important.

Beads of sweat coalesced on Draco’s brow, and Hermione reached up to gently rub at the deep-set wrinkles until she could smooth out the furrows.

“It’s alright Draco,” she said soothingly, “their words and opinions are not your fault. Your family doesn’t reflect who you are.”

The raw anger boiling in his eyes didn’t lessen, but she noticed the drop in his shoulders as he released some tension.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, and Hermione suspected that he wasn’t only talking about the portraits this time.

Hermione trailed her hand down his shoulders and rubbed his bicep in an up-and-down motion. Funny, Hermione had always thought that someone as icy as Draco would be cold, but even through his high thread count blazer, Draco’s body sweltered with heat.

“And I have already forgiven you,” she said. She always had to remind him, and she would continue to remind him until he got it through his thick and stubborn skull. “I’m fine Draco, really.”

Draco licked his lips, and judging by the skeptical glint in his eyes, didn’t quite believe her. But sandwiched between Malfoy ancestors spitting hateful slurs at them was not the time nor place to discuss this, and Hermione needed to move them forward.

Literally.

She brushed past Draco, tugging at his arm for him to follow her.

Hermione pointedly ignored the portraits not-so-hushed whispers as she trudged past them, but they were soon muffled by heavy curtains as Draco began tailing after her.

Aside from the rather rude welcoming party, the Manor itself was quite magnificent. The Manor was more reminiscent of a museum rather than a home with its historic style of intricate, yet delicately carved architecture. White marble pillars lined the right side of the hall while large floor-to-ceiling windows lined the left side, and beautiful chandeliers hovered above them like blossoming glass flowers. The waning rays of sunset flowed in through the curtainless windows, glittering diamonds of light off of the chandelier’s crystals. And despite her less-than-delicate walking, Hermione’s footfalls were light and muted as they ambled across the plush red carpet that was laid over mahogany hardwood.

It was hard to believe that a place as rich in history and culture as Malfoy Manor had once been the headquarters for Voldemort and his band of Death Eaters… No one’s home should have to become a house of tortured souls. 

As the thought crossed her mind, suddenly, Hermione became acutely aware of how quiet the halls had become. Her footsteps stuttered to a stop. 

The string of portraits had abruptly ended, and the hallway in front of her stretched out like a yawning maw of dark space. Although being bombarded by variations of more or less the same _Mudblood_ insults was far from her idea of a swell time, this newfound silence was…eerie. 

In contrast to the pristine condition of every other part of the Manor, a thin layer of dust settled on the floor, and Hermione estimated that it had been several months since anyone had stepped foot here. Even the smell was stale, like old wood that had been left rotting in the rain.

She could faintly see the outline of double doors in the darkness; both doors were left slightly ajar and revealed a slit of light down the middle. A chill ran up and down her spine, every fiber of her being telling her to whirl away from what was clearly an abandoned room.

It was a room that was completely foreign yet unnervingly familiar, and deep, deep down in her bones, Hermione knew exactly where she was.

Hermione craned her neck back and was surprised to see Draco still halfway down the hall. She hadn’t realized how far he had fallen behind— he stood ramrod straight, his entire body stiff like a stone statue as he lost himself in a particularly animated debate with a specific portrait. Although it was hard to see from this angle, she noted that the person Draco was arguing with had long blond hair and a familiar looking sneer.

Hermione frowned, maybe she should go check on Draco…

Or at the very least, she should leave this creepy place. Turn around and shuffle towards their intended destination without another thought or glance backwards.

But Hermione was never good at reigning in her inquisitive nature, and she couldn’t help but feel drawn to this room, like an invisible string still tethered her to it.

Bellatrix was dead. Voldemort was dead.

Logically, there was nothing to be apprehensive about.

It was just a room. Without the people, a room was just a collection of furniture arranged in an indoor space.

Tentatively, she raised her arm up and plunged it forward; her skin glowed ghostly and sallow against the inky pool of darkness. She stared at the _Mudblood_ scar slashed on her wrist. It was still clearly legible, but it was no longer an angry red and had faded to thin, burgundy lines.

Hermione shuffled one step forward, focusing on keeping her breathing even as she edged herself closer to the abandoned room. Her heart beat rapidly against her rib cage like a small mammal and her shoulders unconsciously raised towards her ears.

She shook her head, willing more logical thoughts to the forefront of her mind.

There was nothing to be apprehensive about. No one to be scared of. If she looked into that room, she would be met with nothing but furniture now. Bellatrix was dead. Voldemort was dead.

A hand settled on her shoulder—gentle, with barely a hint of pressure— but Hermione recoiled all the same, jumping and tripping on her heels and fumbling for the wand strapped to her thigh.

Her breath seized in her chest, and she instinctively wanted to call for Draco as panic wracked her brain. But as she whipped around with her wand trembling in her sweaty fingers, Hermione’s plans fell away like sand in the wind.

Narcissa Malfoy stood before her—tall, regal, and the picture-perfect image of an aristocratic beauty. Her fingers lightly pulled Hermione’s body forward, returning them back into the natural light from the tall windows.

Narcissa regarded Hermione with a cool stare, her eyes large, deep-set, and strikingly blue like the ocean on a cloudy day. Her hair was pulled back in a neat updo, not a single strand of her straight black and blonde hair out of place.

“Miss Granger, that area has been warded off. We no longer use that portion of the house anymore,” Narcissa informed her.

“Nar— Mrs. Malfoy…” Hermione stumbled out.

Narcissa raised an eyebrow, but otherwise kept her expression impassive. She said nothing as she gave Hermione’s outfit a brief once-over. Hermione automatically straightened up and lifted her chin high, a bit grateful that she hadn’t gone for the school uniform ensemble.

“You are a brave young lady, that much can’t be denied,” Narcissa commented, although the compliment sounded less like a compliment and more like a clinical observation.

With a flick of her wand, Narcissa illuminated the dark hallway with a row of candles. Instinctively, Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. Mangled bodies and dirt-streaked faces and snarling Death Eaters and broken glass cutting into her skin and blood-curdling screams— _her_ blood-curdling screams, drowned her senses like a storm sloshing through her brain.

She wanted her parents.

She wanted her normal muggle dentist parents to hold her and stroke her back and whisper to her that everything was going to be okay. She loved Harry and Ron as her family, but the love from her parents was just a bit different— unconditional, no matter how vulnerable or insufferable or wrong she was. But this was impossible, as her parents were in Australia and didn’t even know they were her parents—

“Miss Granger, you may open your eyes. There is nothing over there anymore,” Narcissa’s voice floated through her ears, garbled like she had spoken them from underwater.

Hermione opened her eyes, her breath puffing out in a sharp exhale as her senses slammed back into her like a soul returning to a body. Narcissa was right— there was nothing, it was simply an abandoned hallway with a thin layer of dust and nothing else. From what she could see past the open slit of the two double doors, there was also nothing in the drawing room.

Empty of furniture and devoid of all signs of life. Empty of her mangled body and dirt-streaked face and broken glass and blood-curdling screams. Empty of Bellatrix’s snarling face.

“Mother?”

Hermione looked up at the sound of Draco’s familiar voice, quizzical as he drank in the scene of his mother and Hermione staring into the entrance of the drawing room. Draco’s gaze slid from his mother’s to Hermione, and his eyes widened with alarm as he took in her expression.

“Hermione? Are you—”

Without waiting for him to finish, Hermione launched herself into his arms and buried her face into his chest. He staggered back in surprise, but quickly wrapped his arms around her petite body and stroked her back in soothing circular motions.

“It’s alright, I’m here,” he reassured lowly into her ear.

She nodded into his blazer, not trusting her voice to speak. He said nothing more, but she felt his grip tighten around her body protectively, and she finally understood what he had been so apprehensive about.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: This arc was supposed to be like 2 chapters but it ended up becoming 5 😅 trying out Hermione's POV for a few chapters~ 
> 
> Thank you for reading! 😊


	3. Unfair questions

* * *

For a casual evening of tea, there sure were a lot of utensils on the table...

In front of Draco, his mother, and herself lay three matching sets of two forks, two spoons, and two knives. The cutlery sparkled with gold, and each utensil was clean enough to reflect every blemish and freckle on her face. 

Were these really supposed to be used for eating purposes? If so, what was the purpose of duplicate utensils? Did one really need multiple forks to eat a cube of cake? Which one was she supposed to use?

The sweet smell of fresh pastries wafted pleasantly around Hermione’s nose, and her mouth watered as she realized that lunchtime had felt like another life ago. In the middle of the round table sat a lavish array of food and desserts on a three-tiered glass platter— smoked salmon finger sandwiches, flaky scones with rich clotted cream, strawberry Victoria sponge cakes, rosewater macarons, savory quiches, the list of foods could go on and on— plentiful and objectively excessive for a party of three.

Aside from the food, the tea room itself was breathtakingly beautiful with spacious high ceilings, enchanted rose vines spiraling on the cream-colored walls, and a warm fireplace gilded with silver and green.

However…there was one problem—no, on second thought there were many problems—but at this specific moment, one problem stuck out more amongst the others.

No one else was eating, or even remotely interested in the food. (Oh no, perhaps she had picked up Ron’s habits of thinking about food despite the circumstances of the situation).

Neither Draco nor his mother had touched a single morsel, and Hermione knew that this was unusual considering Draco had a bit of a sweet tooth. Instead, Draco and his mother seemed to be interlocked in a staring contest as they silently challenged the other person to initiate conversation first.

“Hermione, you know that you can go ahead and eat,” Draco’s voice interrupted her thoughts, answering the questions she didn’t ask out loud. “Someone might as well enjoy this food.”

Merlin, she couldn’t possibly be the only one eating if no one else did. (And she also needed Draco to eat first in order to observe the correct order of utensils.)

“Ah…no, no, I’m alright. I’m not really hungry,” she lied through her teeth, and placed her hands over her stomach to quell the sounds of it growling in protest.

Draco threw her a deadpan stare, clearly not believing her but choosing not to verbalize it, and turned back to the passive-aggressive staring contest with his mother.

Hermione refrained from rolling her eyes. Honestly, and people called her stubborn?

“For the last time Draco,” Hermione began, “it was my fault that I stumbled across the drawing room. Your mother was pulling me away from it.”

“There should have been a larger perimeter on the barrier wards,” Draco replied, not missing a beat. His eyes narrowed a fraction, and then he propped his elbows onto the table and clasped his hands together. “There’s also the matter of all those bloody portraits. Mother, you should have known better than to leave those out, especially considering the fact that you’re the one who invited Hermione.”

Narcissa’s eyes narrowed in turn, mirroring her son. Although people often noted the striking resemblance between Lucius and Draco, the elements of Narcissa in Draco were definitely there, but perhaps a bit more subtle. It was in the little things, like the way their eyebrows creased together and jaws clenched ever so slightly when they were irritated. 

“Mind your tone when you speak to me, Draco,” Narcissa admonished. However, despite her curt reply, Narcissa turned towards Hermione and did look remorseful, her lips pulling into a frown. “I apologize, Miss Granger. It must have been a rather…unpleasant experience.”

Hermione startled at being directly addressed, secretly grateful that she hadn’t been eating anything because she likely would have choked.

“Oh! Um, it’s alright…” Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat, “Unpleasant yes, but not unexpected I suppose…erm, not that I presumed that Malfoy Manor was teeming with racist blood purist portraits! I meant that I’ve been called variations of all those insults before by your—” her gaze instinctively flickered to Draco, who looked pretty close to the textbook definition of mortified. She coughed into her hand, wishing that she had stopped talking about 30 seconds ago, and finished, “By…some people before. So um, I’m alright. Thick skin and all.”

Oh gods. Although Hermione was no stranger to the limelight, being the subject of Narcissa’s undivided attention fired her nerves into overdrive and apparently made her ramble nothing but word-vomit. 

Heat rushed up to her cheeks and she needed to move them away from this topic. Clearing her throat, Hermione steered the conversation away and said, “So, Mrs. Malfoy, in your letter it seemed that you were interested in learning more about our relationship. If you have any questions then…go ahead and ask them.”

Thankfully, Narcissa didn’t comment on her chaotic monologue, and replied in a tone that was a notch above indifference, “It’s not that I have questions per se, I’m merely…curious about the nature of your relationship, I suppose. It’s difficult for me to discern the motivation behind why you two are pursuing each other. It’s a match that seems rather mysterious to me. Miss Granger, I’m not sure what you’re hoping to gain through being involved with Draco.”

Hermione grit her teeth, but tried to not let the grimace show on her face. Ah yes, she had wanted to come here to clear up these horrid misconceptions. The polite yet patronizing cursive writing of, “ _Miss Granger,_ _for your awareness_ , _my son currently has no access to his inheritance vaults and will not for quite some time,”_ returned like a mantra in her head, and she knew that although Narcissa’s words were polite enough, the Malfoy matriarch did not trust her.

Sitting up straight, Hermione flared to life as her need to defend their relationship superseded her nerves and hunger.

“Mrs. Malfoy, I don’t know where you got the notion that I wanted to marry into Draco’s wealth—not to mention, marriage isn’t exactly on the table at this stage. I know that our relationship may seem a bit unconventional, out of character, and out of nowhere, especially considering our less than friendly history. But I assure you that I’m not after Draco for his money nor the valuables in his vaults. Material items don’t particularly interest me and I intend to work a successful and healthy career in the ministry.”

There was a clatter of silverware, and Hermione slid her gaze to the side to see Draco blushing, but also visibly cringing. Both of his forks lay uselessly on the floor, but he paid it no heed as he slapped his hands against his forehead and hid his expression.

What was that dramatic reaction for? Hermione hadn’t said anything wrong…at least she didn’t think she did.

In contrast to her son, Narcissa appeared to have no discernable reaction, and instead of replying to Hermione, she inclined her head towards Draco.

“Draco, why don’t you go upstairs and clean your room? I’d like to speak with Miss Granger alone, if I may.”

Draco blanched, scrunching up his face in disdain. If it wasn’t for her stomach doing flip-flops at the thought of being left alone with his mother, Hermione might have giggled at Draco’s open displeasure at being sent away to do house chores.

“Clean my room?” Draco repeated incredulously. “Why ever would I need to do that? Are you seriously dismissing me like a child?”

Acting as if she had all the time in the world, Narcissa lifted her tea cup to her lips and took a slow, languid sip. When she set her cup back down with a tinkling clink, she shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly and explained, “Well, you _are_ my child. I’m afraid that the Manor has had a bit of a Doxy infestation in the recent days, and they’ve taken a liking to your room. You know how they seem to favor clothing with a certain high thread count.”

Draco stiffened, his fingers tapping restlessly on the ivory tablecloth. “You should be able to say whatever you wish to say to Hermione in front of me as well. Regarding the Doxy situation, the house elves can dispose of that situation. It’s certainly within their remit—”

He cut himself off, abruptly clamping his mouth shut as he felt the weight of Hermione’s disapproving frown. After exhaling a deep breath, Draco backtracked, “Ignore that last part. I meant to say that I can return back to the Manor on a separate occasion to take care of those Doxies. It’s…only clothing.” 

Although Draco could be considered an accomplished liar, he never was very good at it when it came to his dress robes. Hermione didn’t need to postulate too far to know that he likely itched to check on the well-being of his one thousand suits.

A hint of a smile lifted one corner of her mouth. He was surprisingly self-sacrificing for her, and it was sweet in his own Draco way.

“Is that so?” Narcissa asked, her voice lilting a fraction higher. “Are you really so wary of your own mother?” Despite the coolness in her tone, Hermione detected the layer of genuine hurt underneath. Merlin, they were really mother and son.

Hermione sighed, and then mustered up an encouraging smile and nod for Draco. “Just go. Draco, we’ll be fine here.”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll stay—”

“Just go,” Hermione interjected impatiently, sweeping a hand through her hair. She paused, and added more softly, “Please, Draco, we’ll be fine here.”

Draco hesitated, the beat of silence stretching awkwardly among the 3 of them. Finally, he huffed and crossed his arms loosely over his stomach. 

“…Fine,” he conceded, “I’ll leave you two to it then.”

As he stood up and shoved his chair in, he exchanged a meaningful look with his mother. They spoke no words, and a few moments later, Draco whirled around and sulked out of the room.

Narcissa’s lip twitched into what was probably her version of a scowl. For a moment, it looked like Narcissa was going to stoop to rolling her eyes at her son’s dramatics, but then she turned to Hermione with a neutral expression.

“Miss Granger, I’m well aware that you’re not interested in my son’s wealth,” Narcissa revealed.

Hermione blinked, taken aback. “Then why did you imply so in your letter?”

“The reason is simple, isn’t it? I needed to meet with you. If I presented you with a problem that you felt could be easily resolved, then I gathered that you would have found it logical to rectify the problem immediately and convince my son to bring you here,” Narcissa answered casually, as if it was a normal occasion to manipulate her son and his girlfriend. “My apologies for taking a route that wasn’t necessarily straightforward. I wouldn’t have had to do so if my son wasn’t so adamant about declining my invitations.”

Although Hermione had considered the possibility of Narcissa baiting them, having it confirmed out loud was another thing altogether. She stewed silently, trying to swallow back the rude words that threatened to burst through her lips.

“I can see why Draco is so taken by you,” Narcissa suddenly commented, breaking Hermione out of her churning thoughts.

Curiosity overtook irritation and she furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”

“You’re a very clever young woman, and with a little more training and proper etiquette lessons, you could be a very eloquent and charismatic speaker. You are brave and headstrong, characteristics which may have drawn Draco to you without him even realizing it. And of course, you are quite beautiful. That much cannot be denied,” Narcissa complimented, her unruffled tone not exactly matching the flattering content of her words.

Nonetheless, Hermione ducked her head, still bashful whenever anyone showered her with praise.

“Thank you…” she accepted awkwardly, playing with a loose strand of her hair.

“Miss Granger.”

There was something about her voice that filled Hermione with a sense of foreboding, and she looked up to see Narcissa watching her with a grim, almost reluctant, stare.

“Miss Granger,” Narcissa repeated, “I don’t have anything against you personally. Again, you do maintain many positive qualities. However…you are not what’s best for Draco.”

Like a tray of ice cubes had been poured down her back, Hermione stiffened, and she raised herself higher in her seat.

“…And Draco is not what’s best for you. It’d be wise to end this…relationship, before you two moved along any further,” Narcissa continued seamlessly. 

“What makes you think that we’re not a good fit?” Hermione bit out. Both of her hands clenched the sides of her chair so tightly that her arms shook with the effort. Her magic flared hotly under her skin, and she curled her fingers in an effort to control it.

“To put it succinctly, Draco and myself reside in a world that is different from yours. You don’t understand Draco, and you don’t understand what it means to be a Malfoy.”

Being a Malfoy? Truthfully, their relationship was so new that she hadn’t really thought so far down the line, it had already been a tremendous effort to even get to this point. Even so, Hermione hated it when people underestimated her ability to understand things.

“Then why don’t you enlighten me?” Hermione retorted tightly.

“Very well,” Narcissa agreed, “the core tenet of being a Malfoy is devotion to the family.”

Hermione scoffed at that— if that was true, then why was their only son offered up as a pawn to the nose-less, evil incarnate that was Voldemort?

The irises of Narcissa’s eyes darkened, her face pinching slightly. “You may not understand, but I assure you that this is very well true. Regardless of how the events played out, everything the Malfoys did during the war was in the interest of protecting our family. In fact, this is why Harry Potter is still alive today.”

Narcissa folded her arms on the table, each hand resting lightly on the opposite elbow. “Miss Granger, if you were put into a situation where you could only save either Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, or Draco, which side would you choose?”

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but then promptly closed it. There really wasn’t a right way to answer this, any answer she gave would be manipulated in Narcissa’s favor.

“That question isn’t fair,” Hermione stated instead, “…but I would find a way to save all of them.”

“Alright,” Narcissa allowed, “then I’ll try to frame it another way. What about your career?”

“Pardon me?”

“You said so yourself that you wanted a long and healthy career pushing paperwork in the Ministry of Magic, would you really be willing to sacrifice that to become Lady Malfoy? While I’m sure that Draco may have embellished some points, there are indeed multiple estates to manage and regular balls and galas to host in order to uphold the family name.”

“Upholding the Malfoy family name? What’s left to uphold?” Hermione snapped, unable to help herself.

Something like anger flashed through Narcissa’s eyes, her blue eyes hardening like a glacier of ice. But then, it was gone, her emotions hidden under the familiar veil of occlumency.

“Miss Granger, I’m not here to argue about the details. I’m merely pointing out that your relationship with Draco will be nothing but an endless cycle of sacrifice. If you choose to save Draco, you would have to sacrifice your closest friends. If you choose to embrace the role of Lady Malfoy, you would have to sacrifice your own goals and ambitions. I’m not asserting that any of your choices are incorrect, but rather, I’m asserting that your choices are simply incompatible with Draco’s future. Neither you nor Draco would be happy in the long-term.”

Hermione jumped to her feet, slamming both hands on the table and rattling all the 18 unnecessary utensils on the table. Drops of her untouched tea sloshed out of its cup and stained the tablecloth in a silent pool of brown.

“And what do you know about Draco’s happiness? Do you really think Draco’s been happy over the last few years, first under the thumb of Voldemort and then ostracized by Wizarding society?” Hermione paused, a realization suddenly crossing her mind.

Slowly, she sat back down and curled her hands into the shimmering fabric of her dress. “...You don’t think that it’s only me that would be sacrificing for this relationship. You think that Draco would be making a great sacrifice as well, don’t you?”

Narcissa said nothing, and her silence propelled Hermione to continue, “Do you believe that Draco is foolishly sacrificing his pureblood lineage by dating me? Do you believe that he’s throwing away centuries of carefully sown pureblood marriages for something flimsy, temporal, and doomed to fail—this relationship with me? A mudblood?”

The bright red of Narcissa’s lipstick disappeared as she pursed her lips together, but she didn’t correct the way Hermione described herself.

“The Malfoy family has remained a completely pureblood line for generations that span over centuries. Draco is the last pureblood male of his line and he has a duty to his family,” Narcissa calmly replied.

“I’m aware,” Hermione responded tersely, “that’s what this is really about, isn’t it? You can’t accept my blood status. You don’t want me dead and bleeding in your drawing room, but you still consider my kind lesser than yours.”

“This is about the fact that yourself and my son are not compatible. You don’t truly understand Draco nor his culture.” Narcissa sat up to her full height, boring her cold eyes directly into Hermione’s fiery glare. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for my son, Draco. I only wish to provide him with the best. And I know that it isn’t you.”

Hot tears sprung to Hermione’s eyes, and her vision continued to blur even as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Mucus dribbled out of her nose and left behind a salty residue on her lips. It was more than likely unsightly, but Hermione couldn’t be bothered to care.

Hermione Granger was no stranger to anyone and everyone ripping her apart, but it hurt. It always did.

“You know what?” she said through a choked sob, “you’re actually right. I _don’t_ always understand Draco. He’s so…different than anyone else in my life, and he’s bloody awful at discussing his feelings like a normal person. I am too, probably. I’ll admit that we’re both far from perfect.”

Taking a deep breath, Hermione forced herself to keep her voice steady. “But I _do_ understand Draco where it matters. Hidden away in this manor, you don’t know what Draco has had to deal with in the aftermath of the war. You weren’t there to see him alienated and harassed by the entire student body. You weren’t there to personally witness Draco’s struggles and his never-ending cycle of nightmares. You weren’t there for every 5 am morning.”

Narcissa neither smiled nor frowned, but not once did her gaze leave Hermione.

“You’re right,” Hermione established again. “I don’t always understand Draco. But I _want_ to. I want to know everything there is to know about Draco. I want to know about his family. I want to know about the good parts of his pureblood culture, if there are any. The fact of the matter is that I know as little about pureblood culture as you do about my muggle culture. But the difference between you and me is that I will invest myself in learning the things that are important to Draco. This is not a sacrifice. This is a _choice_. I am choosing to pursue a life of difficult, inconvenient, and hard decisions for my happiness with Draco. If you were truly looking out for Draco’s happiness as you say you are, then you should support us.”

A long sigh expelled from Narcissa’s lips. She massaged the bridge of her nose with perfectly manicured fingernails.

“Miss Granger, like I said earlier, you are an eloquent and charismatic speaker. But since you’re a very practical young woman, you must understand how this possibly couldn’t be realistic—"

“It can,” Hermione interrupted, and tossed her hair to the side, “and it will. Because I’m Hermione Granger, and there are always solutions even in the worst of situations. I’m not called the brightest witch of my age just for fun.”

With that, Hermione spun on her heel and stormed out of the tea room without another glance backwards.

x-x-x-x-x-x

x-x-x

* * *

Bloody hell. Draco stalked back towards the tea room with quick loping strides. 

He was almost certain that Narcissa had summoned those Doxies, and by Doxies, he wanted to emphasize the plural form in big bold letters. After he flung open the door to his bedroom, he was immediately assaulted by a swarm of those chittering pests. Conveniently, they were all out of Doxycide in the house, so Draco unfortunately had to resort to the tedious and old-fashioned away of dispatching them with the knockback jinx. Needless to say, Draco had more stinging Doxy bites than he cared to admit, and he could appreciate going for a very long time without casting another _Flipendo_.

Less than 30 minutes had elapsed since he left Hermione alone with his mother, but Draco had an ominous feeling roiling in his stomach that this time frame was far too long.

Or maybe he was wrong.

Maybe everything was fine, and Hermione got the chance to stuff her face on those macarons she had been eyeing but for some reason, restrained herself from eating.

A blur of dark blue swiftly crossed the intersection in front of him, and although Draco only saw it for a second, the mass of brown hair that was beginning to frizz with frustration could only belong to one person. 

Or maybe he was right, and everything had gone to shite.

Bollocks. Draco trotted to the intersection, but when he turned his head, Hermione had already disappeared from sight. He pivoted to the left and stared at the ornate doors that she had stormed out from.

He sighed, figuring that it may be advantageous to collect some context before seeking out Hermione.

As he quietly slipped through the doors, the sight that met him surprised, but also did not surprise him. Instead of sipping tea and delicately nibbling on a finger sandwich, his mother had abandoned tea in favor of the liquor cabinet and was pouring herself a generous glass of wine. 

Without looking up from the liquid waterfalling into her glass and gurgling with bubbles, his mother addressed him, “I take it that the Doxy issue has been resolved?”

“Yes…unusual isn’t it? In all these years, the Manor has never been bothered with anything as trivial as Doxies,” Draco replied, not bothering to conceal his suspicion.

“Indeed,” his mother clipped, effectively shutting down the topic. Pulling her wand out of her robes, Narcissa vanished the excessive platters of food and the bone-China tea set. Draco winced; Hermione would have hated to see all that food and the house-elves' efforts go to waste without tasting a single bite. He had been hoping to pack some of that for their return trip. 

Speaking of…

“What happened with Hermione?” Draco asked point-blank.

Narcissa didn’t answer immediately, busying herself by downing a significant gulp of wine.

“Mother…” Draco pressed.

The glass landed on the ledge of the fireplace with a resounding slam— loud enough to cause Draco’s shoulders to hitch, but not quite forcefully enough for fissures to crawl up the glass stem.

“I want what’s best for you Draco, and I simply informed Miss Granger of that. As a bleeding-heart Gryffindor, she likes upfront conversations like that, doesn’t she?”

Irritation pulsed through Draco’s chest, his fingers automatically clenching into fists. Still, he kept his voice level. “And I take it you pointed out the flaws in our relationship, which unsurprisingly, did not go over well.”

“Draco, you know as well as I do that as a muggle-born, she does not fit into our world. Do you really want to subject Miss Granger and yourself to the hatred and backlash that you’ll receive from the family as well as the world? Draco, I know we didn’t raise you to have such foolish ideas,” Narcissa retorted, her voice breaking away from the composed nonchalance he was so used to hearing.

He did know.

And he didn’t want to subject Hermione to that.

But he couldn’t help it. In the end, Draco was still a selfish man, and he couldn't help but be swept up in the reckless hope that Hermione had for them.

His mother, who had never been truly alone in a dark place, would never understand.

“I need to find Hermione,” was all Draco said. He swiveled on his heel and walked a few paces away. “Goodbye mother.”

“Draco.”

Old habits die hard, and obediently, he stilled, craning his neck back just far enough to meet his mother’s eyes.

“Draco, if you were put into a situation where you could only save either your father and myself, or Miss Granger, which side would you choose?”

Draco pondered this, taking his time with constructing his answer. He turned around and fully faced his mother, lifting his chin up as his hands slithered into his pockets.

“That question isn’t fair,” he responded.

All at once, like a curtain that had been dropped, Narcissa’s mask of controlled indifference fell away. His mother’s eyes widened, a myriad of emotions—disbelief, incredulity, and perhaps fear— flashing through her face. Rosy color flooded the apples of her cheeks, and Draco couldn’t think of another instance where his mother had looked so alive.

Draco sighed and took a step forward.

“Mother, there are very few things I care about in this world. You are one of them. I love you, and I always will. So please,” The room seemed to grow larger in the pause, the only sound coming from the flickering embers of the fireplace. He waited patiently for her undivided attention. “Please do not give me any reason to have to live my life resenting you.”

“This muggle-born girl…why would you be willing to sacrifice your family for her?” Narcissa stated more than asked. She spoke softly, almost carefully. Dropping eye contact, Narcissa idly swirled the wine glass in her hand and watched the red liquid slosh against the sides.

Draco shook his head. “Mother, perhaps it’s not me or Hermione who need to make sacrifices, but rather you and father that do. What good has pureblood ideology ever done for us? Father is locked up in Azkaban, your son is on probation, and over half your family is dead and buried in the ground.”

“Draco!”

He didn’t relent, and stared straight into his mother’s admonishing glare. “For once in my life, I’m making a choice that’s independent of yours or father’s influence. There are very few things I care about in this world, and until the day Hermione decides I’m not worth her time anymore, I only want to be with her each and every day for the rest of my life.” 

Narcissa blinked rapidly, then glanced down to ascertain just how much wine she had drank.

“Draco…surely you can’t mean that, the both of you are still so young, and quite frankly, don’t know nearly enough about each other,” she reasoned.

“But I wasn’t too young to be tasked with leading a merry band of murderers into a school full of children and killing Dumbledore, hm?” Draco shot back.

“You know that I didn’t want that for you, we had no choice.”

“And now we have the choice to not repeat our mistakes. Pureblood and mudblood are both just blood, a bodily fluid that exchanges oxygen and carbon dioxide. You saw for yourself on the drawing room floor that Hermione bleeds red same as we do. Now if you’ll kindly excuse me,” Draco stalked towards the doors with quick, purposeful strides. Before he set foot outside, however, he placed a hand on the door frame and hesitated, feeling the urge to look back one more time.

The shadows from the fireplace danced over his mother’s face, illuminating the wrinkles that have started to appear on the sides of her mouth and the puffy dark circles under her eyes.

Narcissa had always exuded grace, elegance, and youth—untouchable in her perfection. But the toll of the war didn’t discriminate.

He had never really noticed it before, but his mother’s appearance suddenly matched her age. She looked worn. Tired. When was the last time that his mother had smiled?

If was often easy to forget that his parents were humans too, and his mother was a middle-aged woman who had her husband in prison, half her family lost to war, and lived alone in a hauntingly large house with more ghosts than people.

Narcissa was imperfect, flawed even, and just like himself and every other Malfoy in their history, was groomed to believe that their pure blood placed them above all others.

Draco thought back to the rows and rows of pureblood portraits lined up in their hallways— they were quite literally a chain of terrible people, and Draco realized that he didn’t want to be another link in this family shackled down by hate. 

He only wished that his parents could come to this realization too.

Even so…

Draco gripped the door frame, the polished wood solid under his fingers.

“I promise to visit you more often, mother.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Considering the fact that Narcissa/Lucius didn't even like Astoria, there would likely be some resistance with Hermione. Having Draco fall in love with Hermione breaks the chain in a really heartfelt way, and I think if JKR actually executed Dramione it would have been a nice message that kids have the ability to stop propagating hate. I also didn't want to make Narcissa a straight up "villain" character, she's quite clever and has that Slytherin manipulation in her, but above all her intentions are to protect Draco. 
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts on the story/arc so far, thank you to everyone for the kudos and comments! 🥰


	4. Believe in this

* * *

She knew it was him before she turned around.

Considering the fact that they had barely interacted prior to their 8th year, Hermione thought that her understanding of Draco may have had more holes than solid ground. 

But the subconscious memory was a funny thing, and it was with a startling revelation that she realized…there was actually quite a bit that she already knew.

Most relevant to this particular moment was the sound of his footsteps— brisk, but never rushed, and it was as if he consciously measured his movements with how perfectly even his strides were. Draco almost always wore some sort of heeled dress shoes, and they clicked with each step across the cobblestone pathway.

He was so very different than Harry— who was always impatiently running somewhere on scuffed-up trainers and stumbling on his untied shoelaces, or Ron— who for lack of a better term, sort of lumbered with his clunky walking, and she always had to take two paces to match his one. 

Hermione closed her eyes as Draco’s footsteps stopped beside her, and she steeled herself for the impending discussion of just how horribly her meeting with his mother had gone. If he wanted to haughtily tell her “ _I told you so,”_ then in this situation she would have no choice but to begrudgingly allow it.

“Draco, I—”

The rich aroma of chocolate wafted into her nostrils, and it was like the pause button had been pressed on her thoughts. She opened her eyes, and sitting right under her nose and on Draco’s open palm was a single cauldron cake. Smelling absolutely divine, the chocolate cupcake was lathered in swirled chocolate icing and topped with marshmallow fluff. Hermione’s mouth watered, and she had to restrain herself from snatching it out of his hand like a niffler grabbing gold coins.

“Unfortunately, my mother already vanished the confectioneries from our tea time, if we can even call it that. I managed to find this in our kitchens, however,” Draco explained, then cast a warming charm on the cupcake and brought it even closer to her. “Maybe this can make up for it.”

Hermione’s stomach growled conveniently, and a wave of appreciation thrummed pleasantly through her body. She smiled, touched by the gesture and feeling lighter than she had all day. 

“Oh, thank you Draco, this is perfect. I actually am so hungry,” she divulged.

Draco beamed, but then cleared his throat in an effort to hide his expression. Considering how the past-Draco had surrounded himself with people who showered him with attention and positive affirmation, it made sense that Draco thrived from even the minimal amount of praise. Hermione had just simply never thought that _her_ words would have ever held so much power.

“Do you want to sit with me?” she offered, but didn’t give him much of a choice as she scooted to one side of the stone bench and tugged his arm down.

She then plucked the cauldron cake from his hand and split it in half, returning the slightly larger half to his hand. With her heels discarded somewhere in the grass, Hermione pulled her legs onto the bench and rested her elbows on her knees. 

While Hermione nibbled on her cake and savored the warm chocolate melting like clouds on her tongue, Draco stared at his hand, unsure what to do with his unanticipated half.

“The Malfoy gardens really are quite beautiful,” Hermione noted, oblivious to Draco’s puzzled expression as she gestured to the flowering rose arches and rose bushes flanking each side of the paved walkway in front of them. The fragrant smell of flowers drifted pleasantly in the evening breeze, and if Draco had come a few moments later he might have found her drifting off into a kip.

Her eyes tracked the movements of a magnificent snow-white peacock, its feathers fanning like angel wings as it strutted across the lawn. “And although rather unnecessary, these albino peacocks are admittedly stunning.”

Draco nodded absently, ultimately deciding to pop his half of the cake into his mouth and not dwell on it further.

“Glad to hear that mother’s efforts haven’t gone to waste. She has devoted a significant amount of time into restoring the garden.”

Hermione tensed, squeezing her knees tightly to her chest and made an irritated noise in the back of throat. 

Draco sighed and reluctantly opened the discussion, “So…about what happened—”

“It didn’t go well, like you predicted,” Hermione interrupted. She cast Draco a sidelong glance. “I know you want to say it. If you want to say _‘I told you so,’_ then fine. Go ahead and do it.”

“I gathered as much,” Draco stated.

A beat of silence.

“I told you so.”

“Ugh! Draco!” Hermione pouted, smacking his chest.

“What? You literally told me to say it!” Draco defended. 

“I know, but I didn’t think that you’d actually do it,” Hermione complained.

“I couldn’t help myself. The opportunity to be right over the brightest witch of our age may never present itself again.”

“Stop it, you don’t seriously believe that, do you? I don’t always have to be right…” Hermione grumbled. Theo’s words from a few nights ago circled back to her. Did everyone think that she was some insufferable swot that couldn’t bear to be wrong?

She felt Draco’s fingers gently rake through her hair and detangle the knots that had begun to reform in the humidity.

“I’m only teasing, Hermione,” Draco admitted, his voice soft in that rumbly sort of way that made her heart jump to her throat.

With the cauldron cake digesting happily in her stomach, Hermione had nothing distracting her from the aftermath of that…less than ideal meeting with Narcissa. She frowned and chewed on the inside of her cheek. The discussion was inevitable.

“Your mother probably hates me, or at the very least, thinks I’m very rude.”

“I wouldn’t describe it that way,” Draco replied carefully.

“I yelled at your mother. And then cried. And let’s not forget, I had that nervous breakdown before we even stepped foot into the tea room…” Hermione recounted, flicking a finger up for each transgression.

“It could have been worse, I think. At least no one died today.”

Hermione shot Draco a withering look, then dragged both her hands down her face and cradled her chin.

“This is such a mess. I don’t even know what emotion to feel. Angry that your mother baited us here only to disapprove of our relationship? Disappointed that blood purity still means so much to your family? Embarrassed that I lost control of my emotions so easily? Frustrated that this is only the beginning, and who knows how many people have nothing better to do other than dig for reasons to break us up?”

“I’d imagine probably all of the above,” Draco surmised.

Hermione couldn’t refute him. Sighing, she blew a loose strand of her hair out of her eyes. Silence lingered between them, the only sound coming from the rustling of foliage as the wind carelessly blew rose petals and leaves around them.

In a small, quiet voice meant more for her ears than Draco’s, Hermione muttered, “Why does our relationship have to be so difficult? We’ve been together for barely a few weeks, and it’s already been fights all around. I'm tired, Draco.”

She leaned towards Draco, dropping her head onto his shoulder—bony, and a bit too tall for her— but it still felt right somehow.

Neither pushing her away nor pulling her closer, Draco didn’t say anything for a long time. Such a long time in fact, that Hermione’s eyes began fluttering shut into longer and longer blinks. It had been an exhausting day, and the intermittent hours of sleep Hermione managed to get last night had been plagued with restless thoughts.

Sure, Draco’s shoulder wasn’t exactly the most ideal of pillows, but she felt safe with him by her side, and the weather was so temperate and mild and it smelled really lovely with all these fresh roses—

“There is a way for this relationship to not be so difficult. A really simple way,” Draco’s voice cut in, flat and devoid of all emotion.

Hermione’s eyes shot open, all her drowsiness dissolving as her sense of dread rose like a balloon and hovered uncomfortably near her heart. Lifting her head off of Draco’s shoulder, she turned towards him and verified that his grey eyes were indeed unnaturally glazed and stony.

Ugh, he was occluding.

“What do you mean?” she asked, her eyebrows drawing together.

“Father will be even more difficult than mother,” he answered without really answering. “He will be much more direct with his disapproval. And it’s very likely that he’ll be far more unpleasant with his choice of words.”

“Draco…it’s fine. I’m hardly surprised—”

“But father is just the beginning,” Draco continued, “if those bloody portraits are any indicator, the entire family will be hostile for years to come. Forever, maybe. It’s something that no one should have to be put through, least of all you. We haven’t even gotten started on the press either.”

His entire body trembled; his fists clenched so tightly atop his thighs that his knuckles blanched white. Tentatively, Hermione reached out to grab his hand and smooth out the veins bulging on his skin, but right before she touched him, he snatched his hand away. When he spoke again, his voice was cold but not frigid, and his words tight with control. 

“And when you enter the Ministry and climb through the slow bureaucracy that is the corporate ladder until you’re vying for the position of Minister of Magic—”

Hermione snorted and refuted, “Draco, I am _not_ running to become the Minister.”

Looking at her for the first time since he began occluding, Draco glanced at her from the corner of his eye and waited for their gazes to connect. 

“Perhaps not right now, but you may find yourself changing your mind in the future. You would be a brilliant Minister. I can’t think of anyone better suited for the role,” he stated as a fact.

Despite the odd turn of conversation, Hermione blinked and felt herself go warm. It was unusual for Draco to acknowledge anyone with such a straightforward compliment. 

“And when you’re campaigning to be the Minister of Magic, the press will go snooping for Dementors in the closet and you’ll be weighed down by your association with me. Draco Malfoy, the former Death Eater, the boy behind the fall of Dumbledore, etcetera etcetera. I have faith that the press will think of some other creative and demeaning headliners.” 

A conflicting mix of irritation and sadness washed through her and ended in the curl of her toes— Hermione wasn’t daft, she knew where this was going.

“Draco,” she began slowly, “what exactly are you trying to say?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his wrists twisting and fingers curling in the fabric of his trousers.

“I’m saying that being with me will only hurt you. And I don’t want that, no. Never again,” Draco released a stuttering breath, his next words coming out warbled and choked, “I can’t subject you to the hatred and backlash that you’ll receive from not only my family, but also the entire world. More than ever, it’s apparent that I can’t bring you anything other than negative consequences. Hermione…you’ve hardly told any of your friends about us, right? Why don’t you just…end it and make it a clean break—”

“Stop!” Hermione finally snapped, grabbing him by the shoulders and physically shaking him. She whipped around to fully face him, her long hair flying behind her as she pinned him with a fiery glare.

“Stop giving me all these opportunities and reasons to break up with you like you’re doing me a bloody _favor_. Stop looking at yourself as if you’re some…some toxic sinkhole that’s going to inevitably swallow me up and destroy me. Don’t you dare try to explain that _my_ feelings for you are not worth the trouble. That is not your decision to make.”

Fierce brown eyes narrowed at him, as if her anger alone could slice through layers of iron occlumency shields.

Perhaps they could, as the wrath of Hermione Granger was not something to be taken lightly.

The color drained from Draco’s face, which was impressive considering the already ashen pallor of his skin, but the life slowly returned to his grey irises as Hermione’s outburst shocked him out of occlusion.

Hermione dropped her head forward, closing her eyes as she released a calming breath. Then she leaned back, releasing her fingers from digging into Draco’s shoulders and reached for his hand. She grasped him quickly and firmly before he could even think about pulling away.

Clasping his clammy fingers in both of her hands, she softened her voice and told him gently, “Draco, I know that you believe in me. Which is lovely and I appreciate it, I really do. But I need you to believe in _this_. I need you to believe that I like you because I want to, and not because I’m experiencing a temporary lapse in judgment and will discard you into the rubbish bin the moment I come to my senses. I need you to believe in the idea that Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger can honestly like each other and exist in a functioning relationship.”

“But…you just said that it’s been so difficult, and you said earlier that you were angry, disappointed, frustrated, and embarrassed,” Draco repeated.

“Yes, but that was like venting, you know? I didn’t say that I wanted to give up! Alright fine, so what if we’ve had a bit of a rocky start? No relationship is going to start out perfect."

He frowned, not quite relaxing in his body language, but at least he wasn’t occluding anymore.

When he spoke again, his voice was measured and thinned of emotion, but very much the real Draco. “Think carefully Hermione, is this relationship really what you want? If becoming a Malfoy interfered with your friends and goals and ambitions, would you resent me for it?”

Massaging the bridge of her nose, Hermione tried to curb the impatience rising like hot steam and stitch together a thorough and thoughtful response.

But try as she might, she simply couldn’t.

It had been a long day, and she really didn’t want to fight or discuss the inherent pitfalls of their fledgling relationship anymore.

“No, I would never resent you for this relationship. I’m grateful for everything that happened that got us to this point—even the fights, the nightmares, and the early morning cardio.” She gave him a small smile, and it grew a little wider as she saw the relief sag in his shoulders.

“However, to be quite frank with you,” Hermione continued, “I’m not in the right frame of mind for more of these ‘becoming a Malfoy’ discussions. How can I think about becoming a Malfoy when we still have a Transfiguration and Charms essay due next Monday and a Potion’s practical the next day?”

Draco’s lips quirked into a smirk and he hummed a note of amusement. The muscles in his chest loosened perceptibly as he relaxed. “Of course, how could I forget where your true priorities lie? Are you doing alright with the separation anxiety from the library? It’s been several hours now.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. For Draco’s information, _he_ was the one who always chose the library for their dates. Perhaps he was the true swot amongst the two of them.

But she was secretly grateful for the return of Draco’s familiar dry wit, and she would let it slide this time.

“I think I’ll manage to survive, though I thank you for your kind concern,” she replied flatly, “I expect that we’ll be there tomorrow bright and early anyways after we nod our greetings to each other and then finish our breakfasts across the hall from each other.”

Draco laughed at that, actually freely and openly laughed to the point that he bordered on guffawing. Although she didn’t think that she had said anything warranting such hilarity, Hermione smiled at his apparent amusement.

She took this opportunity to look at her boyfriend, trailing her gaze from his sharp chin to the hollows of his cheekbones and over his long, patrician nose— crooked, from all the times it had been smashed and healed— and stopped at his lips, thin and more pale than pink, but adorable when they were pulled into a grin. His cologne smelled clean like a fresh forest, and he seemed to have perfected the balance of spritzing just enough of the piney scent to not be overbearing. 

When Draco wasn’t trying to murder things with his glare, or scowl at anything that mildly offended him, he really was quite handsome, pointy features and all.

In spite of all that had happened, maybe today wasn’t all bad. Hermione wished that she could bottle up this moment—the mild weather with the sound of Draco’s laughter, the familiar waft of his scent, and the carefree silver gleam in his eyes—and play it on repeat forever and ever.

“Hey Draco,” she nudged his arm with her elbow.

“Hm?”

Hermione absently rubbed at the sensitive skin between Draco’s thumb and forefinger. “Can you…show me what your life was like here? Tell me about your childhood, and show me how you grew up on this Manor. Surely, there must be some parts of this Manor that are wonderful.” 

“What’s this? Curious about little old me?”

Ignoring his teasing tone, Hermione answered honestly, “Yes, of course I am.”

Draco raised an eyebrow at the frank admission.

“Hm…” Draco hummed, considering her inquiry, and then suddenly stuck his hand out to the side and spread out his fingers.

With an inkling that she knew where this was going, Hermione groaned into her hands.

“ _Accio_ broomstick,” Draco ordered, and a mahogany broom came speeding out of seemingly nowhere and slammed into his palm with a satisfying thump. The gold lettering near the top of the handle read _Nimbus 2000_ , and Hermione calculated some quick mental math in her head. 

“Isn’t that broom from 8 years ago? One year older than the _Nimbus 2001_ you had when you joined the Slytherin quidditch team in our second year?”

“Indeed,” Draco confirmed, “I’d expect nothing less from that textbook-verbatim memory of yours.”

“You’re certainly not short on galleons, so why do you keep holding onto all these outdated brooms?”

Shrugging, he replied, “Would you believe it’s because of sentimental value?”

“And do we _must_ do this by broom? I’m perfectly fine with walking, you know,” Hermione asserted.

“Between flying on an 8-year-old, but very well-maintained broomstick, and walking through a Manor filled with chatty portraits of my oh-so-charming ancestors, I believe even you can agree that the former is the preferable option.” 

“…That curtain slamming thing you were doing earlier on those portraits seemed effective enough.”

“Hermione,” he deadpanned, giving her a bland stare.

“What?” she hedged.

In response, Draco tossed the broom towards her, and she automatically outstretched her hand and fumbled to catch it.

“I assure you that I can fly through the terrain of Malfoy Manor with my eyes closed and hands tied behind my back, but the choice is yours,” Draco offered.

Her fingers clenched around the broom handle, still immaculately polished despite years of disuse. Draco was, quite literally, shoving the power of choice into her hands and catering to her need to be in control of all unknown situations.

Merlin’s beard, he was clever.

But Hermione supposed that if Draco was willing to cave in to her wishes of coming here in the first place, then she could do something that he wanted. After all, they had done this flying business before and she admittedly really did have a lovely time, and flying was one of the few things that seemed to bring Draco true joy.

Hermione gritted her teeth and forced a neutral expression of good-natured compromise.

She sighed.

The things that she would do for this boy.

“…Will you promise to keep us at a reasonable height and velocity?”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so fond of insecure Draco and soft Dramione~ 
> 
> Thank you everyone for your comments on Narcissa/Hermione last chapter, I'm glad people liked my Narcissa characterization 🥰
> 
> Thank you for reading and reacting!


	5. Invested in this

* * *

Some habits die hard, or in this case, never die at all.

Hermione clutched the broom handle, or more appropriately, strangled it with her white-knuckled grasp.

“Hermione, I know that you have a lot of pent-up anger in that little body of yours, but I assure you, it will do neither of us any good to snap this broom in half,” Draco drawled, craning his neck back and regarding her with equal parts amusement and sarcasm.

If Hermione was so inclined to loosen her grip, she would have swatted him away.

“It’s a justifiable force of habit,” Hermione claimed, shifting a bit so her dress wasn’t wedged uncomfortably beneath her thighs. Compared with those skinny stick-like heels, going barefoot was the better option, and her toes wiggled as she rested them against the broom’s cold metal footholds. Where was a good sensible school uniform and flats when she needed them?

“Yes, yes, I’m aware. We don’t need to rehash through the details again. Falling off the broom at 200 kilometers per hour, wand dropping out of your robes, lack of seat belts—which by the way, I still don’t know what that means, and why muggles feel the need to fashion their seats with trousers,” Draco recounted. 

Hermione blinked, a little touched that Draco recalled the details of what others may have considered paranoid nagging. 

“You remembered all that?” she said, surprised.

“Yes? It really wasn’t that long ago. What, don’t tell me you think all boys forget everything you tell them within 24 hours.”

Hermione giggled, placing a hand over her mouth. To be fair to Harry and Ron, over the years, she _had_ filled their heads with an onslaught of information that they may or may not have asked for.

Gently, in a manner that Hermione didn’t think was possible of Draco Malfoy, he removed her hand from her mouth and motioned for her to hang onto him. Automatically, Hermione released her other hand from the aged wood of the _Nimbus 2000_ and wrapped it around his waist. She scooted forward on the broomstick until her chest was flush against the hard muscles of his back, her fastened hands dropping lower on his abdomen.

Draco nudged her arms higher and gave her a pointed, although not unkind, look.

“Your hands can’t go so low…” he mumbled, though he turned his head away before she could decipher the oddly embarrassed look on his face. “But hold on tight, alright? Try to tone down all the wobbling back there.” 

Before she could protest that he was unfairly exaggerating, Draco kicked off the ground and the steady current of his magic thrummed through the broom. Her stomach swooped as if she was ascending a rollercoaster, and she instinctively squeezed her eyes shut. The brisk gust of wind billowed her hair around them, and she wished that she had enough foresight to bring a hair tie with her. The longer strands of hair that framed her face whipped against her cheeks, so she buried her face into the crook of Draco’s neck, which was warm, and just slightly dampened with sweat. He smelled salty, yet faintly sweet, and the strangest impulse of nibbling on his neck entered her mind.

True to his word, however, she soon felt the broom stop rising, and Hermione forgot about the unusual turn that her thoughts were taking. She cracked an eye open to see that Draco had, as promised, kept their velocity and height at a reasonable level.

The Malfoy gardens were even more beautiful from a birds-eye view. In the center, stood a white gazebo with vines curling up the pillars and intricate crisscross patterns carved across the domed roof. Verdant green hedges lined the edges, and stone statues, glistening fountains, and trimmed topiaries were arranged neatly with picture-perfect symmetry. There were flowers of all colors and varieties—purple lavenders, sun-yellow peonies, blue delphiniums, and soft pink primroses to name a few. 

In the distance, Hermione noted that the Malfoy family had not one, but a whole muster of albino peacocks that strutted across the lawn. With their white plumage fanned out and from this distance, the peacocks resembled wispy puffs of dandelions moving across green rolling hills.

Hermione was so entranced by the lush gardens and explosion of mismatched flowers that somehow managed to _work_ that she almost forgot that she was riding on a broom. It wasn’t until Draco lowered them down, effortlessly weaving in between the statues and topiaries like a map was projected in front of him, that Hermione remembered where she was and tightened her hold around his waist.

The flowers intermingled into a general sweet, floral scent, and Hermione felt herself relax as she slowly inhaled the earthy smell of nature. The trickling sound of water from the fountains and the whooshing of the wind was the only sound between them, and as the spray from the fountain sprinkled cold water onto her face, she instinctively nuzzled her nose into Draco’s shoulder.

“My family used to walk through the gardens every evening,” Draco said, breaking the silence. His body vibrated against Hermione’s cheek as he spoke.

“Father, mother, and myself,” he elaborated, as if he needed to rebuild the image of his family in his head. “Before entering Hogwarts, I had a rigorous schedule of lessons every day. Magical theory, family history, pureblood etiquette, estate management— everything under the sun that my father could think of. After our evening tea, we would walk through the gardens and I’d be tested on what I learned that day, and if I got anything wrong, then I’d be lectured accordingly.”

“It sounds like you were a bit of swot yourself, doesn’t it?” Hermione dropped casually, voice light. 

“Hm,” Draco made a noise from the corner of his mouth, and she could almost imagine him smirking. “From the moment I was out my nappies, I was already thrown onto an accelerated reading program and bombarded with books and knowledge. Even so, I’m afraid that I still can’t compete with you in that regard.”

He made a sharp turn that had Hermione lurching from her seat, and she would have berated him immediately if he didn’t continue speaking.

“You know, I was never enough. No matter how many questions I answered correctly, or how quickly I picked up on my lessons, father never smiled. Never seemed to be happy with what I accomplished,” Draco hesitated, stretching the space between his sentences. “There were two options—either I performed as expected, or I was a horrible disappointment.”

“Perhaps…but it also seems like your parents were very proud of you. Your parents wanted to give you the best life, didn’t they? Even if they were strict with you, and made choices of questionable moral alignment, it was out of love,” Hermione noted astutely, and she released one of her hands from Draco’s waist to massage the tense knot on the juncture of his neck.

There was a hiccup in the flow of magic thrumming along the broom and a slight drop as the broom dipped downwards. But it was gone as quickly as it had occurred— and if Hermione hadn’t been paying attention, she may have missed it altogether.

“…Yes,” he answered at last, “the world can say what they will about my family, but despite everything, we do love each other.” 

They exited the Malfoy gardens and entered into a sprawling field, complete with tall quidditch hoops and a grand lake sparkling in the background. Draco drifted the broomstick higher and then lazily zigzagged across the pitch. 

“Apologies for cutting your psychoanalysis of my childhood short, but this is the next step on Draco-Malfoy’s-entitled-childhood tour.” 

“I think we can work on the name. It doesn’t quite roll off the tongue,” Hermione remarked.

Draco chuckled at that, and the sound of Draco’s genuine amusement was still something so strange and new to her ears.

“This is the field where I received my first broomstick, and subsequently, where I spent most of my days practicing. I was able to do a loop-de-loop on my very first day of flying,” he boasted, and even Hermione could recognize the impressiveness of such a feat.

“I see, that’s very impressive,” Hermione acknowledged out loud.

Draco didn’t say anything in response, but he straightened up, and his flying seemed to be energized with renewed vigor. Their flying continued at a reasonable height and velocity, but like an unspoken tension in the air, Hermione knew that Draco itched to rip through the grounds and show off his true flying prowess.

Inwardly groaning, Hermione steeled herself for what she was about to allow.

“Fine,” she stated.

“Fine what?”

Sighing, Hermione’s fingers involuntarily flexed and she stroked Draco’s stomach absently.

“You can fly a bit more…daringly…but don’t blame me if I can’t help but break your ribs.”

Draco’s eyes lit up, his grey eyes brightening to something like clear silver. From that single look, Hermione was transported to a past before Voldemort and dark arts and pureblood ideology truly clouded Draco’s mind, and he was just a young boy who wanted to fly in his backyard. 

He angled the broom towards the air and they soared like a rocket hurtling through space. Hermione yelped as the stream of wind buffeted her hair this way and that, and she pressed every inch of her body against Draco as the sound of her thudding heartbeat pounded through her ears.

Draco flattened his body, which caused Hermione to do so as well, and they zoomed through all the quidditch hoops in quick succession with no unnecessary movements. Even with the adrenaline rushing through her and tingling all the way to her bare toes, Hermione was in awe of Draco’s meticulous control of magical output.

They kept going—farther and farther and faster and faster through the green open fields rippling below them. Draco careened them towards the center of the sun, which was just beginning to dip under the horizon. She squinted, her eyes burning from the glare of the unobstructed rays of light. Just where was Draco taking them? 

It turned out that Hermione didn’t need to ruminate for long; Draco turned his head back, an uncharacteristically boyish grin on his face as he shouted over the wind roaring through their ears, “Don’t miss this next part.”

Before Hermione could question what he meant by that, they zoomed over the crest of the tallest hill—really a small mountain—and left the land behind.

Hermione gulped and clenched her legs around the broom’s handle, her eyes immediately flitting downwards. Nothing but endless waters opened below them, all borders seemingly disappearing beyond the horizons and stretching to the ends of the earth. Hermione breathed in deeply, the crisp, fresh air running cleanly through her lungs. Light from the sunset glittered like scattered diamonds, moving with the natural undulation and ebb and flow of the lake.

“Look up,” Draco suggested, correctly guessing that her first instinct was to glue her eyes to the water.

Grumbling just a bit that she was _not_ that predictable, Hermione did as he recommended, and her jaw unhinged in a silent gasp. The sky was a gradient of pure blue. Sharp streaks of orange cut between clusters of clouds, their undersides painted with cotton-candy pink and summer red and glowing with an ethereal golden outline.

All she could see were blue skies for forever, it was the closest one could get to flying without sprouting wings and soaring through the sky themselves. Something like peace settled deep into her soul, and for this fraction of a moment she let go of the future and expectations and stress and trauma and just wished— wished that she could stay here forever with Draco chasing the tails of clouds and closing the distance between themselves and the sun.

Suddenly, Draco steered the broom downwards and they plummeted towards the water at a breakneck speed. On any other day this would have triggered a mild myocardial infarction, but today, Hermione was unafraid—she trusted whatever Draco had in store for them.

They flew above the lake, hovering low and nearly skimming the surface, and the spray of cool mist tickled pleasantly against her bare toes. If she focused carefully, she thought that she could make out the brown fins of Plimpies, the spherical and mottled fish, bobbing towards the surface of the lake on their spindly legs. 

Gradually, Draco pulled back on the magic he was pulsing into the broom, and their velocity slowed to a steady pace. Draco dragged one hand into the water, just enough to wet his fingers, and threw up a palmful of water. It sprinkled in front of them with a crisp splash. 

“Whenever I flew over that hill and ended up here, above the water with nothing between me and the sun, I felt like I could do anything. Be anyone. The sun was right there, right before my eyes. All I had to do was stretch out my hand and capture it. There was so much I had ahead of me, my future was bright and mine to seize and control. I was going to become someone that the Wizarding World could never forget.”

Draco paused, abruptly barking out a dry laugh that made Hermione’s stomach twist with sadness. “But I should have known that flying into the sun would have only burned me. Little did I know that the future me would up end up being such a shitty person and also trapped in so much shite. I suppose I did become someone that the Wizarding World could never forget, but of course for all the wrong reasons.” 

Releasing her grip around Draco’s waist, she moved her hands to run up and down his back. She felt him shiver under her touch. 

“Oh Draco, you’re talking like your life is finished, but you still have so much life to live. Even if you were someone…rather unpleasant before, that’s not the case anymore. You can still do anything and be anyone,” Hermione countered, and waited until Draco turned around to face her.

“Actually, _we_ have so much life to live, together. The skies can go on forever,” Hermione emphasized, and before he had time to process her words, she kissed him fully on the lips. 

A grin spread across her face as Draco turned a predictable shade of cherry-red right to the tips of his ears. Maybe this flying business wasn’t so bad after all.

x-x-x-x-x-x

x-x-x

* * *

Before the large double windows were even fully opened, Hermione was already able to make out the towering shelves and smell the age of leather-bound books.

Once the windows were unlocked and magically pushed to the side, Draco wasted no time cruising inside and landing in the middle of the library. All too eager to touch solid ground again, Hermione slid off the broom and sighed in relief as her feet touched the frigid, smooth surface of polished marble.

Hermione’s eyes sparkled with blissful wonder as she drank in the floor-to-wall shelves teeming with rows and rows of books. White arches with gold trim decorated each bookshelf, and at the end of the hall, two white and gold spiral staircases led to an upstairs balcony. Books of every color and size neatly filled every nook and cranny, and her jaw dropped as she considered the insurmountable wealth of knowledge sitting in this single, albeit very large, room.

Hermione spun around and stared at Draco with wide, round eyes. “It would have been more accurate for your mother to insinuate that I’m dating you for your library, not your money.”

“Don’t give her any ideas,” he warned, but his lips quirked into a hint of a smile. Rather than follow her into the beautiful library, however, Draco collapsed onto a Chesterfield sofa and lolled his head back.

Hermione furrowed her brow, but before she could take a step forward, Draco waved his wand and summoned a pair of house slippers to her feet.

“You had to leave those heels behind, didn’t you? I think this is the only pair of my shoes that may fit you, but even that may be farfetched.”

Hermione blinked and inspected the black fuzzy slippers beneath her— not Draco’s style, yet completely Draco’s style all at once. The slippers were indeed too long and narrow, but as Hermione slipped her feet in and wriggled her toes, she found them surprisingly cozy.

“It’ll do,” she assessed, feeling herself go warm at how…oddly domestic this felt to be wearing his things. “Aren’t you coming to explore with me?”

Draco waved a lazy hand in the air, his other arm slung over his eyes. “You go ahead and collect as many books are you want to take back to Hogwarts with you. Between fending off a Doxy infestation, dealing with my mother, and flying an outdated broom with crushed ribs and little to no air circulation,” Hermione winced at that, feeling a little guilty, “I’m bloody tired.”

“Oh…in that case, why don’t we head back to Hogwarts and then you can rest in a proper bed?”

Without moving his arm, Draco shook his head. “I’m fine here, just enjoy yourself for now. It may be a very long while until we return back to Malfoy Manor.”

“But—”

“Just let me sleep,” he cut in flatly, then seemed to think better of it and grumbled a polite, “Please.”

“Okay,” Hermione relented.

And explore she did, combing through shelves and shelves of pristine books and sinking into the comfort of being encompassed by knowledge, just waiting to be filed and sorted into her brain. But as the towers of books levitating behind her piled high and there was no Draco to tease her about her swotty tendencies and then immediately be a hypocrite by recommending all of his favorite titles, Hermione began to feel…lonely. Despite being surrounded by her favorite things in the world in the most beautiful library she had seen in her life, her thoughts soon wandered to Draco.

Like an invisible string tugging at her fingers, she wanted to go back to him. 

Keeping the shuffling of her—Draco’s— house slippers to a minimum, Hermione returned back to the Chesterfield with two towers of books floating behind her. She released the _Wingardium Leviosa_ charm and the books drifted to the floor with a gentle plop.

With the waning sunlight filtering in through the window, Draco’s blond hair appeared lighter, nearly flaxen. The urge to run her hands through his hair struck her, and she wondered if it was as soft as it looked as it swayed in the draft. His head was resting at an odd angle that most definitely was not good for his neck, and she could just make out the tiniest dribble of drool in the corner of his mouth.

Hermione smiled, feeling special to be privy to this moment of the ever immaculate and stoic Draco Malfoy dropping his guard. Who would have thought that the horrible 11-year old git who harassed her and her friends at every turn would become someone she cared so much about? 

If Hermione was to be completely honest with herself, she had never in her life expected to date Draco Malfoy.

The Malfoy that Hermione had known prior to their sixth year and for the majority of her life had been to say the least, not a very pleasant person.

There was no nice way to put it— Malfoy had been a cruel bully who seemed to have no hobbies other than to antagonize Harry, and by extension herself. If he wasn’t acting like a foul, loathsome, evil, little cockroach who terrorized other children for no apparent reason, then he had been a pompous prat who threw his father’s name around to anyone or anything that would listen. 

It was hard to believe that this Draco, _her_ Draco had once been that person. Sure, Draco was still sarcastic and could still be described as well, not _exactly_ nice, but he was trying to be better, and was there more she could really ask for?

She walked towards his prone form with the intention to adjust his sleeping position to something more comfortable, but he stirred, and the hand curled on his chest twitched.

Hermione frowned; she had forgotten that he was an incredibly light sleeper.

Perhaps subconscious memory applied to him as well, and he recognized the sound of her footsteps from 7 years of growing up with her. Draco gradually shifted to a sitting position, covering his yawn as he muddled back to consciousness. His clothes were wrinkled, his hair stuck out at odd angles, and not unlike Crookshanks, he stretched his limbs like a grumpy cat.

He caught her watching him, and those sleepy grey eyes brightened upon recognition of her. His lips curved into a soft smile that made Hermione’s stomach flip-flop in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

“I want to fall in love with you, obviously,” Hermione blurted out. She froze, where did that come from? The filter between her heart and brain was clearly not in effect.

Draco blinked, and blearily rubbed the dust from his eyes. He blinked some more, and stared at her as if she was a figment of his imagination. 

“What?” he said blankly.

“I said, I want to fall in love with you,” she repeated, more confidently this time. If she was going to dip her feet into the pool, then she might as well dive all the way into the waters. “That’s the point of relationships isn’t it? You get in one because you think that you can fall in love with the other person.”

Hermione looked down, scuffing the floor with the toe of her fuzzy black slippers. “Your mother…she thinks our relationship is this…temporary phase. Something for you to get out of your system and something that I’ll view as a burden over time. But it’s not, and I won’t. I told your mother that I was invested in this and I meant it,” Hermione claimed.

Wide awake now, Draco sat fully upright and regarded her carefully. “How can you be so sure?”

“I can’t,” she answered truthfully, looking up to meet his eye. “All I can tell you is that I’m invested in this. In _you_. I want to fall in love with you, and I…I don’t know that much about love. But if it’s with you, I…um, I think I can.” Hermione flushed, her bravado fading to nerves as she fiddled with her hands. In a voice that she tried her best to keep steady, she quietly admitted, “I hope that you can fall in love with me as well.” 

Draco said nothing, and was motionless for so long that Hermione wondered if he had accidentally cast a nonverbal stunning spell on himself. Hermione ducked her head and kept her gaze resolutely trained on the floor. But then a shadow cast over her, and she looked up to see Draco watching her intensely. It was like he saw nothing else in the entire world— no that wasn’t quite right, he looked at her like she _was_ his entire world. 

“Draco—”

He kissed her before she could utter another word, desperately, like she was going to disappear from the world if he waited another second longer. His mouth moved against hers so feverishly that she felt light-headed, and when his tongue slipped out and teased against the seam of her lips an electric tingle shot up her spine, and she stumbled backwards. But Draco’s arms wound around her back before she could fall and he crushed her body against his chest, maximizing the physical contact between them.

He smelled so enticing— sweaty, but in an oddly appealing way that was uniquely Draco, and like a grove of pine trees after a pounding thunderstorm. His hands were so warm, and his hold on her so tight that she could even feel the bumpy callouses on his palms from years of quidditch practice. Her brown eyes darkened as her pupils dilated, there was a pool of fire steadily mounting in her belly, dripping lower and lower as she felt her own desire beginning to flare.

But then it was over as soon as it started—Draco abruptly pulled away from her lips but kept her in his arms, resting his chin on her hair.

Hermione blinked rapidly, trying to orient herself as Draco had wound her up only to set her back down.

With a slightly irritated expression on her face, Hermione leaned back and opened her mouth to question him. But then she saw his face, saw the way his grey eyes were coated with a sheen of wetness and saw how his nose was ruddy red, and her initial question fell away as lust melted to concern.

Worried, she tilted her head to the side, and told him softly, “Draco? It’s okay, I’m right here.”

He wiped at his eyes and nose with the back of his hand, so quickly and subtly that she might have missed it, and then pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That wraps up the Meet-Narcissa arc! Thank you for reading and please let me know your thoughts. 🥰
> 
> On another note, I do like this soft-Dramione dynamic, but I haven't exactly loved a bunch of my draft future chapters (which means they get scrapped to the rejected folder) so I don't know how often I'll update this story... I'm also working on some new outlines that go back to argumentative-enemies-to-lovers Dramione, so we'll see, maybe there will be more stories to come!


End file.
